


If My Heart Were A Compass

by speciate, torakowalski



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Background Relationships, Coming Out, First Time, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, The Thenardiers and their terrible parenting, potential child endangerment, stupid pining boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:04:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speciate/pseuds/speciate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire spent high school desperately in love with his best friend, so when the time came for university, he made sure to move as far away as possible. </p>
<p>Now, he's home and Enjolras is asking him on dates, and it's just too much for Grantaire to cope with, especially while he's also trying to help his new friend Éponine hold her family together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If My Heart Were A Compass

**Author's Note:**

> Tora's Author’s Notes: 
> 
> First fic in a new fandom! I've been reading in this fandom for years, so I thought I should have a go at writing it, but now I’m nervous.
> 
> Thanks to Wildestranger for casting her eye over it, to Catterhey for France-picking, and to Speciate for spotting stray typos while also producing the AMAZING art that you'll find embedded throughout.
> 
> Warnings for: child endangerment, the Thénardiers, implied alcoholism and mental health issues, and two fairly minor panic attacks.

In the last week of the Easter term, Grantaire glances down at his phone while he walks between lectures, idly reads the new text alert on his screen, and drops his phone.

Belatedly, he swears.

His hands are shaking, when he kneels down to pick up his phone, which is ridiculous, but there you are: he’s ridiculous and, after eighteen months of silence, he’s just got a text from the person who makes him the most ridiculous of all.

**_Enjolras_**  
 _I’m sorry I never kissed you_.

While Grantaire is busy staring, and swearing, and staring again, a second text follows:

**_Enjolras_ **  
_Will you call me, please?_

“ _No_ ,” Grantaire says, emphatically and out loud, which gets him some weird looks from other students who are passing by. He stuffs his phone into his pocket and finishes the walk to his lecture in a daze.

“Why do you look like you got hit in the face with a hammer?” Éponine says, appearing out of nowhere and taking the empty seat next to him. 

Grantaire blinks, realises he somehow made it to their usual places in the back row without any conscious thought, and groans.

He drops his head against the back of his chair, except this is an old lecture theater with old, worn down furniture and there is no back to his chair, there’s just the hard edge of a window ledge behind his desk.

“Ow,” he whines, while Éponine laughs at him.

“What the hell is going on with you?” she asks. She leans over and rubs the back of his head with a kind of rough love that reminds him of his grandmother.

Grantaire looks to the front of the room, where the lecturer is tapping her notes into order and looks as though she’s about to start talking. “Can we go out tonight?” he asks. “I need to get really, really drunk.”

“It’s a Tuesday,” Éponine says. “I thought we didn’t drink until Wednesdays.” She’s got a little frown between her eyes, not like she objects to drinking, but like she objects to him worrying her.

“That is usually the plan,” Grantaire agrees. It’s a plan he put into place when he realised he couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t miserably hungover, but today doesn’t count. “However, tonight we need to get _so_ drunk.”

Éponine tousles his hair before removing her hand and turning to the front, where the lecturer is starting her slides. “You better be planning to explain later,” she says out of the corner of her mouth. “You know I don’t like cryptic bullshit.”

“Promise,” Grantaire says, then keels over sideways and tucks his face into her shoulder, so he can freak out in private while the lecture drones on around them.

***

“Okay, so, wait,” Éponine says, “you’re pathetically in love with some boy from high school, but you managed to never mention him until now?” She smacks him hard on the arm.

Grantaire has drunk most of a pitcher of something violently orange, so he doesn’t really feel her punch. He still looks at her sadly, on principle. “Don’t hit,” he says, “I’m in a delicate state.”

“Not yet you’re not,” she says, refilling his glass for him. This is the problematic sort of cocktail that doesn’t taste of booze at all; Grantaire is going to regret this _so_ much in the morning. Or maybe in about an hour. “Spill.”

“I’ve been trying really hard not to talk about him,” Grantaire says. “I mean, it’s pretty much the only rule I’ve had since I came to university: _don’t talk about Enjolras_.”

Éponine still looks frustrated with him. “And don’t drink on Tuesdays,” she points out, unhelpfully.

“And I failed that one too, look.” Grantaire gestures with his hand, except his hand is still holding his glass and he knocks himself in the teeth with it. It hurts.

“R.” Éponine takes the glass and puts it down on the table. She curls their fingers together instead. “Come on. Words.”

Grantaire leans his chin on their joined hands. “We went to school together,” he says. “We were best friends until puberty, then I was horribly in love, and he was horribly indifferent. Now he’s sorry he didn’t kiss me.” He’s glad he’s drunk enough that he has an excuse for the way his voice is suddenly thick. “What does that even _mean_?”

Éponine squeezes his hand. This is possibly the most supportive she’s ever been to him. Or, no, not the most supportive; she always supports him. It’s the most demonstrative she’s ever been, though. 

“You could call him and find out?” she says.

Grantaire shakes his head. The room spins in slow circles around him. “No,” he says. “No, talking to Enjolras on the phone would be bad. He’s like one of those… you know when you talk to an answer machine and it’s like you’ve forgotten how to make sentences? It’s like that. But with someone listening on the other end.”

Éponine bites her lip. “That does sound bad,” she agrees. Grantaire kind of hates her and the way she’s clearly mocking him; she’s drinking too, he doesn’t understand how she can still be dry and subtle and smirky, while he’s a drunken mess. “Is there someone else you could call? A mutual friend?”

Oh. That’s a better idea. “That’s a better idea,” he tells her. He’s been staring at his phone all evening, reading and rereading those two stupid texts from Enjolras. It’s nice to have an excuse to poke the screen and try to bring up his contacts list.

“I didn’t mean now,” Éponine says, putting her hand over the screen. At least, she tries to, but luckily she’s less coordinated than she’s pretending and she misses the first time. By the time she regroups, Grantaire has managed to find Courfeyrac in the list.

Calling Combeferre would probably make more sense, since he and Enjolras are at the same university together, sharing a flat and carrying on like they’re still at school, probably. But Combeferre won’t tell him things and Courfeyrac might.

“R!” Courfeyrac says brightly. “What an honour.”

Grantaire smiles reflexively. He and Courfeyrac whatsapp quite regularly, but it’s still very nice to hear his voice. Especially since Courfeyrac is either genuinely pleased to hear from him or really good at faking.

“Something’s going on with Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “What’s going on with Enjolras?”

“You sound drunk, R. Are you okay?” Courfeyrac asks. All Grantaire’s friends worry about his drinking - it’s sort of their defining feature, whether they’re school friends or university friends - but only a few of them ever outright mention it.

“I’m in a bar,” Grantaire says. “There are cocktails. My friend Éponine is here. Something is going on with Enjolras.”

“There’s always something going on with Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says. “Want to be more specific?”

Éponine is making impatient faces at Grantaire so he says, “Hang on,” and puts the phone on speaker.

“Wow, you _are_ in a bar,” Courfeyrac’s voice says from the middle of the table. “That’s loud.” Grantaire and Éponine both lean in close, so they can hear him, and manage to bump heads. “Ow, and I heard _that_.”

“Hi, random home friend of Grantaire’s,” Éponine says.

Courfeyrac laughs. “Hi, random university friend of Grantaire’s. Are you Éponine?”

“I _am_ Éponine,” she says. She sounds like she’s declaring herself to be queen, which, to be fair, she basically is. Éponine is Grantaire’s queen. Or… something. Ugh, he’s so drunk.

“Enjolras says he should have kissed me,” Grantaire blurts out. “Why did he say that? Why _would_ he say that?”

Éponine puts her hand over Grantaire’s again and squeezes.

There’s a long, static-y pause. “Wait, what?” Courfeyrac asks. “He said _what_?”

  
  


“Kissing,” Grantaire repeats. He puts his head down on the sticky table so his mouth is close to the phone. It feels like the sleepovers they all had when they were younger, sharing secrets across the same pillow.

Of course, back then, Enjolras would have been on Grantaire’s other side. They always lay their sleeping bags out next to one another; it would have been unimaginable to do anything else.

“Okay, start at the beginning,” Courfeyrac says.

Grantaire does. He has to shout a little so Courfeyrac can hear him, which means that the people at the tables around them definitely also know everything. Grantaire doesn’t care. He just wants someone to unconfuse the world for him.

“Huh,” Courfeyrac says. “Okay, hang tight little chickies, I’m going to find out what the fuck’s going on.”

He ends the call on his end, letting the noise of the bar suddenly come rushing back into Grantaire’s awareness.

“He seemed nice,” Éponine says. She downs her drink then makes a face. “Oh, I’m going to throw up.”

“Yeah, me too,” Grantaire agrees, but he isn’t sure if it’s from the drink or the sudden, crippling nerves over what Courfeyrac is going to find out.

***

Grantaire wakes up on Éponine’s floor, Gavroche peering down at him.

“Bah,” Grantaire bleats, swatting up in the air at him. He doesn’t come anywhere near making contact - even half dead he wouldn’t have done it, if there’d been a chance of making contact - and Gavroche laughs at him.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asks, sitting down cross-legged next to Grantaire’s head. He picks up a mug from the carpet and waves it above Grantaire’s face.

Grantaire’s stomach feels like someone poured acid into it. Coffee is either going to be a very good idea or a very bad idea. 

“I do,” he says slowly. “I don’t suppose you have a straw?”

Gavroche looks incredibly unimpressed, so Grantaire struggles up onto his elbows and then, when that doesn’t kill him, manages to sit up all the way. He leans back against the arm of the sofa and covers his knees with the blanket that someone must have given him last night.

“Azelma wanted to put sugar in it, but I didn’t let her,” Gavroche says, propping his chin on his pyjama-covered knees.

“You’re a prince among humans,” Grantaire tells him, slurping greedily at the coffee. It isn’t good, because the Thénardiers never leave _good_ stuff around for anyone but themselves, but it exists and he’s not going to be picky. “Where are your parents?”

Gavroche shrugs. “Out,” he says, which is good enough for Grantaire. As long as they’re not here, Grantaire doesn’t care. They’re not good people, but they pretend they are, and they’d take it out on Éponine if they found her friend passed out drunk on their floor.

Gavroche watches Grantaire drink his coffee with the sort of intensity that would make Grantaire have performance anxiety, if it weren’t for the fact he’s able to drink coffee under _any_ circumstance. 

“Okay what?” Grantaire asks, once he’s finished. He’s very proud of his constitution, because the coffee seems to have settled his stomach rather than making an instant reappearance. 

“Are you and ‘Ponine dating?” Gavroche asks.

Grantaire frowns. It’s too early for questions, even though he does know the answer to that one. “No,” he says, “not at all.”

Gavroche sighs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. The twins are on my side, but Azelma thinks you’re going to get married.”

Grantaire rubs his forehead. He has a killer headache, but he deserves it. He’s not sure this conversation would be any less confusing, even if he didn’t. “Why do you sound sad? You don’t want us to get married, right?”

He doesn’t want to get married, he’s only twenty, and if he did, it wouldn’t be to a girl, not even one as excellent as Éponine. He’s fully aware that Gavroche could probably trick him into getting married, if he really put his mind to it, so this is a little worrying.

Gavroche doesn’t answer. “The shower’s free,” he says, instead. “You smell.”

Grantaire pokes him. “Thanks,” he says, sarcastic as he can. He stumbles up to his feet, bringing his blanket with him. He rubs the top of Gavroche’s hair as he goes to leave. “Thanks for the coffee and the weird chat, kid.”

“Whatever,” Gavroche says. When Grantaire leaves the room, he’s still sitting in the middle of the carpet, looking downcast.

***

Éponine is wet and wrapped in a towelling dressing gown when Grantaire knocks on her bedroom door. “Wow, you’re alive,” she says, like she wasn’t as bad off as he was, by the end of the night.

“Your brother wants us to get married,” Grantaire announces. 

Éponine flinches, which is weird. “Oh god. Which brother?”

Grantaire is really, really tempted to throw himself down onto her bed, but if he does that, he won’t be moving again today. “Gavroche. The little ones don’t like me.”

Éponine smiles at him like he’s cute but very stupid. “They like you. They just like peace and quiet more, and you’re not very quiet.”

Well, Grantaire can’t argue with that. “But the marriage thing?” he prompts.

Éponine avoids looking at him in a really obvious way. She picks her comb off the table by her mirror and starts jerkily trying to remove the tangles from her wet hair. “They think if we got married, they could all move in with us,” she tells the mirror. “Which is ridiculous, obviously.”

All right, now Grantaire does have to sit down. “You don’t want to marry me, do you?” It was shocking enough to find out that Enjolras has thought about kissing him, but it would be mindblowing if Éponine had.

Her laugh is convincingly and reassuringly incredulous. “Fuck, no.” She tugs on her hair so hard that it’s definitely going to snap. “It would be nice to be able to get them all away from here, though.”

There’s not a lot Grantaire can say to that. He has terrible parents too, but they’re the ones who disowned him. He got to run away to university and refuse to ever go back to Paris. Éponine had to pick a university she could commute to from home, because she’s essentially the only adult her sister and brothers have.

He takes the comb out of her hand the same way she’s always taking glasses out of his, and starts running it through her hair. “If I win the lottery, I’ll buy you a house, no marriage required.”

She snorts. “If you won the lottery, you’d buy out the Louvre, don’t front.”

“Okay, but after that,” Grantaire says, grinning into her shoulder. “ _After that_ , I’d buy you and the brats a house.” He frowns down at a really knotty tangle. “Also possibly a trip to the hairdressers.”

“Fuck you,” she says, but she sounds cheerful, which is all Grantaire had been aiming for.

***

“So,” Courfeyrac says, when he finally calls Grantaire back. It’s mid-afternoon and Grantaire has been lying on his bed, listening to the Dixie Chicks and drinking red wine out of the bottle, because he is a parody of himself.

“Oh god, what?” Grantaire asks, when Courfeyrac doesn’t follow that up with anything. “Is he dying? Was he drunk? Did he get my number mixed up with someone else’s? What?”

“Wow, he really rattled you, didn’t he?” Courfeyrac says. “And no, Combeferre says he’s healthy, not having a breakdown. However, he may… oh, you’re not going to like this.”

“What?” Grantaire asks miserably. He drinks more wine in the pause, because wine. Wine won’t confuse him. Wine is his friend.

“Remember I love you and I’m here for you,” Courfeyrac says and doesn’t even sound like he’s joking. “‘Ferre says Enjolras came out to him yesterday.”

For a moment, Grantaire thinks he’s misheard. He waits, letting that gradually, _gradually_ sink in. “No,” he eventually manages, drawing it out very, very slowly. “No, Enjolras is straight.”

Courfeyrac sighs into the phone, which blows static into Grantaire’s ear. “Apparently not completely.”

Grantaire squeezes his eyes closed. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Courfeyrac’s quiet for a while. When he comes back on the line, he sounds more serious that Grantaire can remember hearing him. “Come home for Easter; I want to hug you in person.”

Grantaire shakes his head hard, even though Courfeyrac can’t see. They should have done this over Skype, so Grantaire could have a breakdown and Courfeyrac could hug the screen or something.

“I don’t come home,” he says, like Courfeyrac might have missed that. They’re all in their second years now (except Feuilly, who didn’t go to university, and Jehan who took a gap year) and Grantaire has been home twice, for no longer than a weekend each time, and even then it was under sufferance.

“Ahh,” Courfeyrac says. “No, you _haven’t_ come home. That doesn’t mean you can’t or won’t.”

“Don’t get lawyer-y on me,” Grantaire says. “Why would Enjolras deciding he’s into guys - ” Fuck, Enjolras has decided he’s into guys. “ - mean I need to come home?”

“Because I think he needs a friend,” Courfeyrac says. That’s just… that’s playing dirty is what it is. Not just dirty, but actually cruel.

“Fuck you,” Grantaire says and takes the phone away from his ear, so he can hang up.

It’s only Courfeyrac’s frantic squawking that stops him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac says, when Grantaire puts the phone back to his ear. “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you; I mean it. Combeferre says he’s freaked out and doing that Enjolras thing where he pretends he’s fine.”

Grantaire nods along, because he can picture that. He knows exactly what face goes with that: stoic face, flat lips, tight shoulders, a tiny wince at the corners of his eyes like a nudge might break him.

(Enjolras was wearing an expression like that the first time Grantaire ever met him. Eleven years old and staring down the front door of their new school, like it was a personal challenge.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Grantaire said, because that’s what his mother had told him, this morning.

“I’m not _nervous_ ,” Enjolras said, like that was preposterous. “I just don’t want to go inside.”

Grantaire kicked his new black shoes through the gravel a few times, until they were dusty and possibly scuffed. Now they looked a bit more like they belonged to him. “Why?”

Enjolras made a face. At eleven he hadn’t had the vocabulary to denounce elitism. He’d soon acquired it. “It’s so fancy,” he settled on.

Grantaire laughed. “It’s certainly that,” he agreed, looking up and up at the old white-stone building, with its solid towers and miles of grounds. It was a private, Catholic, all-boys school. It was _definitely_ fancy.

“This is going to be terrible,” Enjolras predicted, all dire warning and serious tone.

Grantaire thought he was delightful. He put his arm around Enjolras and led him gently through the front door. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll stick together.”)

Courfeyrac is still talking. “He and Combeferre are already home, I leave tomorrow, most of the others break up at the weekend. Your holidays start soon, right?”

Technically, Grantaire is already finished. He’s done with lectures as of this morning, and he’s handed in all his coursework. He was planning to spend his Easter holidays here, working on some paintings but… Fuck, why is he thinking about this?

“He texted you,” Courfeyrac says. “Not me, and no offence, but that’s not how this usually works.”

“So what?” Grantaire asks, finally finding his voice. “I’m the token queer in our little group, and now Enjolras has decided to experiment, I’m supposed to be his Yoda? Fuck that. And him. And possibly also you.”

“All fair places to attribute your fucks,” Courfeyrac says. “Just do me a favour and think about it? Please. For me.”

“I really hate you,” Grantaire says even though he doesn’t, even though talking to Courfeyrac makes him feel warm and at home in a way he never does, anymore. 

Courfeyrac laughs softly. “Text me your plans. Don’t come home, if it’s going to kill you, but you know we’d all love to see you.”

Grantaire starts to argue, then gives up. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Bye.”

“Bye,” Courfeyrac says and blows him what sounds like it’s supposed to be a kiss down the line. 

Grantaire knows he should be pissed off, but he finds himself laughing as he ends the call.

***

“This is a bad idea,” Éponine tells him. She’s sitting on his bed, watching him pack. He doesn’t have nearly enough underwear for a two-week trip to Paris, but that’s what turning things inside out was invented for.

“This is a really bad idea,” Grantaire agrees. “Probably my worst since that thing with the Baileys and the absinthe.”

“Nothing is worse than the thing with the Baileys and the absinthe,” Éponine says, with a shudder. “But it’s probably close. You’re going to travel halfway across the country because the boy you’re in love with is having a sexual identity crisis. That sounds like masochism, to me.”

“Oh, it’s definitely that,” Grantaire agrees cheerfully. He gets tired of packing t-shirts and sits down on the bed next to her. “But he’s so pathetic when he’s sad, ‘Ponine, it’s terrible. Doves come down from their perches just to weep at his feet.”

Éponine raises one eyebrow eloquently. “Really,” she says flatly. “Where will you stay?”

“With Fantine,” Grantaire says. That part’s easy; he texted her this morning to ask if it was okay and she’d seemed delighted to say yes. He’s not worried about that part, just about everything else.

“Oh, _Fantine_ ,” Éponine says, lighting up. “She’s my hero.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Of course she is.”

“Of _course_ she is,” Éponine agrees, missing (or more likely ignoring) Grantaire’s sarcasm. “Everything you’ve ever told me about her has made me love her more.”

Fantine took Grantaire in when he came out to his parents and they disowned him. She hugged him and let his friends get teenaged-boy-germs all over her nice little house, she even helped him to apply for a scholarship, so he could finish school without his parents’ money.

He doesn’t deserve her and he doesn’t know why she puts up with him, but he’s too grateful to ever really question it.

***

Grantaire’s train draws into Austerlitz mid-afternoon on Sunday. He can’t really believe he’s doing this, but this does seem to be a thing he’s doing. It doesn’t feel real; it’s like he’s outside his body, watching it happen and marvelling at it.

 _I’m here_ , he texts to Courfeyrac, even though what he wants to do is get back on a train and go back to his tiny room in his crappy student housing, where no one but Éponine will try to talk to him or make him do anything.

_Awesome,_ Courfeyrac replies after a couple of minutes. Everyone else is getting off the train, but Grantaire is happy enough to stay in his seat. _Cosette is picking you up._

“Who?” Grantaire asks out loud. He’s got to stop doing that. People all over the country now think he’s a weirdo. He texts back quickly, _Who???_ but doesn’t get a reply.

He grabs his suitcase and climbs off the train, walking down the platform and looking for a stranger who seems like they might be looking for him. This is why Courfeyrac isn’t allowed to plan things.

“Grantaire!” he hears. “Over here!”

It’s Marius, looking as much like a gangly, tousled giraffe as ever, with his arm wrapped around a tiny blonde little thing. They’re both waving madly, even though Grantaire hasn’t seen Marius since the summer before university and he’s never met his lady friend before.

“Grantaire, hello,” Marius says, bounding over. He keep his arm around the girl and she manages to keep up gracefully, without _looking_ like she’s being dragged along.

“Hello,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t know why Marius looks so excited to see him; Grantaire doesn’t remember ever being all that patient with him. “Are you Cosette?”

“She is!” Marius says, putting his hands on her shoulders and sort of thrusting her forward like he’s presenting her for inspection.

Cosette laughs, holding out a hand to Grantaire. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she says. “Everyone talks about you all the time.”

“Do they?” Grantaire asks, shaking her hand. He doesn’t say that no one has told him about her, because that would be dickish. He’s only dickish to people who deserve it - and Enjolras, regardless. “I thought Courfeyrac was picking me up.”

Her smile dims a little. “He was, but… he and Combeferre wanted to take Enjolras for a drink, so I said I’d pick you up, since you’re staying with my mother and everything.”

There was an awful lot of information to take in there. “I’m staying with your mother?” he asks, dismissing the idea of anyone wanting to take Enjolras for a drink. No one wants to take Enjolras for a drink, he just sits around with his arms folded, looking uncomfortable the whole time. “No, I’m staying with Fantine.”

“Yes!” She looks at him closely and frowns. “We should get coffee,” she decides, “come on.” 

Cosette reaches out to take Grantaire’s bag from him; he doesn’t let her. Marius reaches around her to take it instead; Grantaire doesn’t let him, either. 

“What’s going on?” Grantaire hisses at Marius as they follow Cosette across the concourse. People part around her as though she takes up much more space than she actually does and she smiles at them all sweetly in thanks.

“I fell in love,” Marius says, staring at Cosette’s back as though the curl of her blonde hair and the fall of her white dress are the only things that exist in his world. Maybe they are.

“Yes, I can see that,” Grantaire agrees. People don’t part for him the way they do for Cosette and he has to dodge a tourist with a giant, purple suitcase. He hates tourists. “I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality.”

“Yes, me too.” Marius sounds dreamy, so Grantaire gives up on him.

They get coffee and Grantaire buys himself a couple of pastries, because he’s starving, then they all sit down around a tiny metal table meant for two.

“You’re Fantine’s daughter?” Grantaire asks, when they’re settled. “Fantine doesn’t have a daughter, only the baby she… Oh.”

“She had me adopted when I was little,” Cosette agrees. “When I was eighteen, I started looking for her and it turned out we live in the same city now, isn’t that wonderful?”

“It’s… yeah.” Grantaire swallows some coffee. Of course it’s wonderful; Fantine hardly ever talks about her little girl, but when she does, it’s with a longing that puts Grantaire’s deepest sadnesses to shame. “I’m just surprised no one mentioned it.”

“I thought Fantine would have,” Marius says. He waves a hand. “I mean, I think we all thought Fantine had told you and you just didn’t want to talk about it…”

Grantaire frowns. “Why wouldn’t I want to talk about it?” he asks, but Cosette puts her hand over his, squeezing. 

“I hope you don’t see me as a threat,” she says earnestly. “I know you and my mother are close and I’d never want to get in the way of that.”

“I just stay with her sometimes,” Grantaire says, embarrassed. They’re not _close_ , he doesn’t do _close_. They’re just… Fantine was kind to him when his own family wasn’t; that doesn’t mean he’d even consider that he might rank anywhere near her own long-lost daughter.

“She thinks of you as a son,” Cosette says, still kind, still sweet, not seeming to mind at all. “She told me.”

Okay, great, now Grantaire’s going to cry. He pushes away from the table and picks up his paper cup of coffee. “Shall we get going?” he asks. “Traffic’s going to be terrible.”

“You forgot your pastries,” Marius says.

Grantaire’s throat is too clogged up for food. “You have them,” he says. “You’re always hungry.”

Marius doesn’t argue, because Marius _is_ always hungry. Grantaire’s relieved that that hasn’t changed. He gets four paces away, before he realises he’s forgotten his bag but, by the time he turns back, Cosette is there, wheeling it along behind her.

“No, you have your coffee to carry,” she says primly, refusing to relinquish the handle, when he reaches for it. 

“So do you,” Grantaire says, but he’s not going to be so churlish as to snatch it from her. 

“Come on, I’m parked this way,” Cosette says, striding forward, Grantaire’s suitcase making a whirring sound along the smooth floor. Marius lopes past Grantaire to keep up with her, throwing Grantaire a helpless smile as he goes. 

Grantaire just shakes his head and tries to keep them both in sight.

***

(Grantaire was an embarrassing disaster, the first time Fantine met him.

He was fifteen years old and terrified because he couldn’t, he _could not_ be in love with Enjolras, not really. He’d got her number from a friend of a friend of Courfeyrac’s, and he’d gone to meet her with half a bottle of wine sloshing around in his system, for courage.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been a well-dressed woman in her thirties, with long dark hair and big, luminous eyes. He definitely hadn’t expected to be led into her living room, and offered a cup of tea.

“How old are you?” she asked, passing him a plate of biscuits.

“Eighteen,” Grantaire said promptly. His fingers felt numb and it was hard to handle the delicate handle on the china cup she’d handed him.

Fantine smiled. She looked like the Mona Lisa, he thought wildly. “No, you’re not.”

Grantaire breathed slowly, worried that between the wine and the nerves, he might be about to throw up on her flower-patterned rug. “Seventeen, then,” he said. 

“No.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Grantaire, why are you here?”

He gave her a look over the top of his teacup. “Why do you think?”

“You’re very young,” Fantine said, “and you’re very handsome. There’s no need to rush.”

“No, no, no, it really has to be now,” Grantaire said, desperately. She was going to say no and he was going to have to go back to school and _still_ not know, still not be able to face Enjolras. “Are you really supposed to say no?”

It was a shitty thing to say and her expression told him that. “I’m an escort, not a poor girl on the street, so yes, I have the luxury of saying no.”

Grantaire blinked hard, vision going blurry. It had taken him weeks to work up the courage to come here, she _couldn’t_ send him away.

“Sweetheart.” She took the teacup out of his shaking hand and set it down on the table. “There’ll be plenty of girls your own age, who you won’t have to pay. Wouldn’t that be better?”

“Will there?” Grantaire whispered. He pressed his hands over his eyes and shook. “I don’t know… I don’t think... I think I’m gay.”

There was a soft shift of fabric as Fantine got up from her seat across the table and moved to sit next to him. “Shh,” she said, putting her arm around him. “That’s no reason to cry.”

Grantaire rubbed his fingers into his eyes. They came away wet and sticky. “Yes, it is,” he told her. His head was aching, his stomach roiling horribly. “I’m sorry, I’m really drunk.”

Fantine patted him on the shoulder and pulled away. “I’ll make some more tea,” she said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

He hadn’t believed her then, but somehow she’d managed to make it more or less true.)

***

Cosette’s car is tiny and pink and has white daisies painted all over it - inside and out. (“They’re ironic,” she says then laughs. “Well, sort of.”)

They get caught in traffic, because there’s always traffic in Paris, but luckily, their conversation sticks to nice, safe topics that won’t make Grantaire even more nervous. 

Although, after thirty minutes of hearing in intricate detail about how Marius met Cosette, their first date, their second date, their first kiss, Grantaire is kind of wishing they could go back to his awkward attachment to Fantine.

_I hate you so much_ , he texts Courfeyrac while nodding and smiling and nodding again to Cosette, who’s given up on looking at the road since they’re not going anywhere, and has all her attention on Grantaire.

Marius is squished into the backseat, long legs almost up to his knees, and that’s the only thing about this situation that’s giving Grantaire any joy.

Courfeyrac’s reply is utterly without remorse. _At the Musain getting pissed. Come & find us when you escape_.

Eventually, they get to Buttes-aux-Cailles and pull up outside Fantine’s little row house. Marius spills out of the car with the sort of sigh that implies he has cramp everywhere. Cosette just shakes her head and smiles at him, before climbing out too.

Grantaire has to take a minute before he can follow them, just telling himself firmly not to panic about anything. This is Fantine. Sometimes Fantine is the only person who _doesn’t_ make Grantaire panic.

She beats him to it, coming out of her house and onto the pavement, while he’s halfway through opening his door. He climbs out, smiling at her awkwardly, and she presses her hands together.

“Oh my dearest,” she says and for a moment he genuinely thinks she must be talking to Cosette. Then she reaches out and pulls Grantaire into a hug and oh, okay, that makes sense too.

“Hi, Fantine,” he says, patting her back awkwardly because otherwise he’s going to cling and awkward is better than needy.

“I didn’t realise they were going to pick you up,” she says, lowering her voice so she’s just speaking into his ear. “I wanted to tell you about Cosette face-to-face.”

Grantaire pulls back and smiles at her. “Why does everyone think I’m going to be upset over a really wonderful thing?” he asks. “I’m so happy for you.”

Fantine smiles back. She’s always pale, always a little unearthly-looking, but now she pinks right up, looking bright and pleased in a way that is very, very similar to Cosette’s apparently-permanent brightness.

“I’m happy for me too,” she says, with a little laugh and a duck of her head, like she thinks she’s not supposed to be. “And now you’re here, too.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come before,” Grantaire says quickly, “or stay in touch better.”

“No.” Fantine shakes her head. “You called me, and you sent me those lovely drawings you did in Monte Carlo. I didn’t feel forgotten.” She squeezes his arm. “Now, come on, I’ve made sandwiches.” She raises her voice to Cosette and Marius. “Can you two make sure the table’s set, please.”

While they hurry on ahead, Grantaire looks at Fantine again. “Is that weird?” he asks. “Your daughter dating Marius?”

“It’s weird _having_ a daughter again,” she admits. “But no, Marius is a sweet boy, and it gives her a reason to stay close by.”

“I’m sure she’d do that anyway,” Grantaire tries.

“Hopefully,” Fantine says. “But it’s nice to have the extra assurance. Now, tell me about what you’ve been up to. How’s that boy you were seeing?”

“Dumped him,” Grantaire says, taking her arm and escorting her into the house. His luggage can stay in Cosette’s car for a bit. “He had a really tiny dick.”

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Fantine says, and her laughter is like a peal of bells.

***

Grantaire can’t very well leave Fantine immediately after arriving - nor does he want to; he’s missed her a lot - so it’s late by the time he reaches the Musain.

He’s so nervously excited to see Courfeyrac and Combeferre again that he almost forgets that Enjolras will be there too, until he looks through the fogged up window and spies all three of them crowded around a table.

There are a lot of empty glasses all over the table, bottles too, and at least one pitcher. Courfeyrac drinks when he’s partying - unlike Grantaire, who just drinks - but the other two rarely do and never to excess.

At least, they didn’t. Maybe Grantaire’s been away so long that the world has turned upside down.

He takes a deep breath and pushes open the door. He’s hit by a wall of sound and the smell of sweet, spilled drinks. He always expects bars to be smokey, even though they haven’t been for years.

He winds his way over to the bar, buying himself a beer (and a shot of whiskey, which he downs there and then) before heading through the crowd towards his friends.

Combeferre spots him first and stands up, just slightly unsteadily, to hug him. “Thank god you’re here,” he says in Grantaire’s ear, which is really, really confusing, and then Courfeyrac is on him, showering his cheeks with kisses.

“Woah, woah, no slobbering,” Grantaire laughs, trying to shove him away, except one arm is holding his beer and the other is still wrapped around Combeferre. He looks over their shoulders at Enjolras, who’s watching them all with his head tipped slightly to one side. “No hug from you, monsieur?”

Enjolras’s eyebrows come together slowly, like he needs to think that through. “You didn’t reply to my text,” he says and oh, hell, he’s sloshed. “It took me two days to send that and you didn’t reply.”

“It took you two days to write six words?” Grantaire asks, trying to joke even though his heart is suddenly pounding. “Did you have an autocorrect issue?”

Combeferre pokes him in the ribs. “ _R_ ,” he says softly.

“Right, fine, okay.” Grantaire pulls away from Combeferre and Courfeyrac and sits down at what may be a spare chair at their table or may belong to someone and he’s just stolen it. “Hi, Enjolras.”

Enjolras’s mouth shapes the word before he says it. “Hello.” His lips are always very lovely and very pink, but tonight they’re red, flushed from drinking or from biting them, which is something Grantaire is very aware Enjolras does when he’s worried.

  
  


“Approximately how drunk are you?” Grantaire asks. He needs to know how careful he’s going to have to be, how much Enjolras is going to remember in the morning.

Enjolras leans forward. “I threw up,” he confesses, “and then I kept drinking.”

Okay, far be it from Grantaire to criticise anyone else’s alcohol intake, but that’s not good. He looks at Combeferre who usually would not let shit like that happen.

Combeferre shrugs. “I think he needs it. This has really not been a good week.”

Before he knows he’s going to, Grantaire puts his hand over Enjolras’s on the table. Since he’s already committed, he gives it a squeeze. “I hear you’re one of us now,” he says conversationally. “A friend of Dorothy, batting for the other team, on the bus.”

“Euphemisms are stupid,” Enjolras says very carefully but very gravely. “You should embrace what you… who you are.”

“I do,” Grantaire says. He’s trying not to laugh, but it’s hard. Drunk Enjolras is endearing in a way that sober Enjolras often isn’t. “Is that what you’ve done?”

Enjolras looks down at the table, tracing a condensation ring with his free hand. “My mother thinks I’m going to hell,” he says. “Which should be funny since I don’t believe it exists, but strangely isn’t.”

Grantaire squeezes Enjolras’s hand so hard that it probably hurts. Enjolras doesn’t react. “No,” he agrees. “That’s never funny. Are you...” He looks up at Combeferre. “Is he staying with you?”

“Yep,” Combeferre says. Combeferre doesn’t say _yep_ , Combeferre talks like a grandfather. (Not Grantaire’s grandfather, who was a painter and swore like a sailor, but other grandfathers, the kindly sort from books.)

Courfeyrac leans into Combeferre’s shoulder and starts refilling everyone’s glasses from a bottle of wine. Grantaire gets assigned an old cocktail glass, which he’s more than happy to accept.

“We’re not talking sadness and bad parents,” Courfeyrac tells them firmly. “R’s home, Enjolras is drunk, we’re going to have a party.”

“Cool,” says Grantaire, who’s always up for a party. “Does that involve lots of drinking?”

“So much,” Courfeyrac promises. “Now, tell us about Provence; is it all warmth and sunshine and sandy beaches?”

“Only on days ending in Y,” Grantaire says, which gets him booed. “No, I don’t know, it’s mostly classes and work and more classes, just like everywhere else.”

“Is that why you don’t come home?” Enjolras asks. “Because it’s better in Provence?”

Huh, okay, Enjolras sounded kind of bitter there. Maybe he’s wishing he’d gone south for university too, instead of sticking around Paris.

“I don’t come home, because there’s nothing for me, here,” Grantaire says. It doesn’t occur to him that that might be tactless, but Courfeyrac gasps extravagantly and Enjolras frowns.

“Rude,” Combeferre says mildly. 

Grantaire hides his face in his glass, so he doesn’t have to look at any of them. “Well, you could visit,” he says. “I have a very nice floor to sleep on.”

“Yay, road trip!” Courfeyrac says. He kicks Enjolras in the ankle. “You’ll come and sleep on R’s floor with us, won’t you?”

“I doubt there’s room on Grantaire’s floor for all of us,” Enjolras says. He leans back in his chair, his spine all loose and liquid in a way Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever seen it before. It’s really, really distracting.

“No, one of us would probably have to share his bed.” Courfeyrac sounds innocent, he really does, but Grantaire still glares at him anyway, just in case. 

When he looks back at Enjolras, he’s distracted by how pink Enjolras’s cheeks are. Enjolras’s body really doesn’t know how to handle drink, it seems.

“Are you seeing anyone, at university?” Combeferre asks.

_What is this, Twenty Questions With Grantaire?_ “I’m never seeing anyone,” he says, and hopes that sounds less pathetic out loud than it does in his head. He doesn’t mention the boy he was sort of slightly dating earlier this year, because he really wasn’t interesting enough to mention. No one ever is. “Are you?”

Combeferre smiles like that’s funny. “No time,” he says. “They said second year would be easy, but I’m beginning to suspect they were lying.”

Grantaire makes what he hopes is a sympathetic face. He doesn’t know how Combeferre has the stamina for medicine; Grantaire barely has the energy for his super-pretentious art degree.

“I’m dating lots of people,” Courfeyrac offers. 

Grantaire laughs. “I bet you are,” he says, at the same time that Enjolras says, deadpan, “Do _they_ know that?”

No one asks Enjolras, if he’s seeing anyone. Presumably the others already know, and Grantaire just isn’t brave enough to hear the answer to that.

He looks longingly over at the bar and stands up. “My round?” he asks, which not only earns him a small measure of undying love, but also offers a chance to escape and regroup for a minute.

***

It’s not that late by the time Combeferre decides they should be heading home. It’s probably a good idea; Enjolras looks saturated, just a puddle of boy slumped against the table.

For some reason, Grantaire’s left in charge of him, while Courfeyrac goes to hail them a taxi and Combeferre goes off to do Combeferre-y things. Or possibly go for a piss.

Leaving Grantaire in charge of anything is always a mistake; leaving Grantaire in charge of Enjolras is going to be a disaster. He wishes someone would come back so he could tell them that.

Enjolras rubs his hands over his face and swears softly. “Oh god,” he mutters into his hands.

Grantaire doesn’t mean to laugh, it just happens. “I know that feeling,” he says, hearing how affectionate it comes out.

“Why… How…” Enjolras lets his head sink slowly back down onto the table. “How do you do this so much? I feel dreadful.”

“You’ll feel worse in the morning,” Grantaire tells him, cheerfully. He reaches out a hand, trying to look like someone who doesn’t expect to be rebuffed.

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand and groans tragically, while Grantaire levers him first upright and then all the way to standing. He sways dangerously, but manages to stay on his feet. 

“Okay, that’s great,” Grantaire says, wondering if he sounds patronising. “Let’s find Combeferre and - ”

Enjolras his free hand had been rubbing his head, now he drops it, and stares at Grantaire with wide, serious eyes. “I can’t go home with him like this,” he says.

“Uh huh?” Grantaire asks. “I don’t think you have a choice.”

Enjolras shakes his head fast. Grantaire reaches out and grabs his arm, before he can make himself fall over. “I _can’t_. His parents are letting me stay, but I’m in the way… They don’t want me there. I…” He sits down on the table. “Can I just sleep here?”

Grantaire feels suddenly sympathetic towards the friends who usually have to herd him home. “No, no, you can’t, come on, Bacchus, let’s get you home.”

“Bacchus?” Enjolras asks. “I thought I was Apollo.”

Grantaire flinches, even though he knows Enjolras isn’t thinking about what he’s saying. They don’t talk about that nickname; Grantaire hasn’t called him that in years. 

(They were in art class, which Grantaire loved and Enjolras hated, learning about Greek Classicism. 

It was a theoretical lesson, no actual drawing was supposed to take place, but that never stopped Grantaire, who drew in art, in history, in science, and during Mass, if he could get away with it.

He was sketching the view out the window: a big group of boys playing rugby on the sports field, and then adding in an alien invasion, because of course, when he looked up and saw the picture on the projector.

It was Apollo, arrow in hand, long golden hair flowing back from his face, a flock of downtrodden, shepherd-like people huddled at his feet for protection.

Grantaire snorted and nudged Enjolras. “Hey, look, it’s you,” he said, just loud enough that Combeferre, who sometimes sat with them, overheard and laughed.

“It is not,” Enjolras said, which was just silly, because Grantaire took it as a challenge.

By the end of the lesson, Grantaire had filled a page in his sketchbook with “Enjolras and the Muses” and Enjolras had a brand new nickname.)

He steps in between the sprawl of Enjolras’s legs and tries to put his hands on Enjolras’s sides in the most impersonal way possible. “Come on.”

Enjolras doesn’t let himself be moved, he just slumps forward, head sinking down onto Grantaire’s shoulder. “Please let me sleep here?” he asks, voice soft and slurred and far too close to Grantaire’s ear.

“You’re being so unfair right now,” Grantaire tells him. But he’s a weak, weak man and it’s impossible not to return the hug, to let his arms close the circle around Enjolras’s waist and hold on to him.

Enjolras makes a quiet, satisfied sound that manages to hit Grantaire’s dick and his heart simultaneously. “Do you think I’m being a fool?” he asks.

Grantaire finds himself stroking his thumb over the line of Enjolras’s spine. It’s covered by his shirt, even if his shirt is sticking to him with sweat, so Grantaire doesn’t feel too creepy. “A fool?” he asks. “I think you’re tons of things, but I don’t know why I’d ever think that?”

Enjolras pulls back just a little, but he leans against Grantaire’s arms as though he needs them there to stop himself falling off the table, so Grantaire doesn’t move them. “You came out when we were barely sixteen, and here I am, twenty years old and making such a fuss.”

“This is you making a fuss?” Grantaire asks. He wants to ask _you think I didn’t fall to pieces, too?_ but this isn’t about him.

“I’m drunk,” Enjolras says, like that’s the worst thing he’s ever done.

“Also talking to me,” Grantaire can’t help pointing out. 

Enjolras frowns, exaggeratedly hard. “I always talk to you.”

Grantaire is still stroking his back; he really needs to stop that, it’s getting weird. “No, you shout at me, or shout _back_ at me, or give me the stony silence of your disapproval. I might get you drunk again, if it means we can have a conversation.”

“You can get me drunk, if you like,” Enjolras says and then, while Grantaire’s still trying to work out what that means, he adds, “I always mean to have a conversation with you. But I don’t know what to say, anymore. I used to know what to say to you.”

Grantaire tries not to feel stung, because that’s ridiculous. He knows that’s how Enjolras feels. “I know. Me neither,” he admits.

Enjolras is looking at him oddly. It takes a moment for Grantaire to work out that he’s concentrating. Specifically, he seems to be concentrating on Grantaire’s mouth, but that can’t be right. “I do like you,” he says.

Grantaire closes his eyes in defeat. “You don’t, but that’s okay. You’re just drunk, right now, so you like everyone.”

“No.” Enjolras’s hand lands on Grantaire’s cheek and since Grantaire’s eyes are still closed, it takes him completely by surprise. “I _do_ like you.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire pleads. He can’t even pretend to be surprised when Enjolras’s mouth touches his, because Enjolras telegraphed that part a mile away. “Don’t. Please.”

“But I like you,” Enjolras says again. His breath is warm and full of beer, despite everything else he drank after that. His lips are soft and they press against Grantaire’s exactly how Grantaire always imagined they would. 

Grantaire opens his mouth just enough that Enjolras’s top lip slips between his, then Enjolras changes the angle and it’s his bottom lip, full and warm and smooth, that Grantaire is sucking into his mouth.

Someone should definitely stop this, and it should definitely be Grantaire, because he’s the sober(er) one, he’s the one who’s taking horrible, horrible advantage. But he’s a bad person, a bad, weak, desperate person, and Enjolras is _kissing him_.

  
  


Enjolras presses closer with a little, lost noise, and oh, okay, that’s his tongue. His tongue is pushing against Grantaire’s tongue. Grantaire is going to have a heart attack. He lifts his hands and curls them gently around Enjolras’s jaw. If Enjolras remembers this tomorrow and hates him for it, he at least needs Enjolras to remember having felt wanted.

“Shit,” Grantaire hears from somewhere outside the bubble the two of them are in. It’s like drifting off to sleep in the middle of the day and waking up to find you were dreaming. He’s suddenly aware that they’re are people around them, that his heart is pounding, that Courfeyrac, at least, is close by.

Grantaire breaks the kiss, even though he thinks it might actually kill him to do so. Enjolras sways after him, which makes Grantaire want to laugh hysterically because no way, this can’t actually be happening.

“We have an audience,” he tells Enjolras and steels himself to be shoved away.

Instead, Enjolras just looks up, which is more than Grantaire has been brave enough to do, and blinks a couple of times. “Hi,” he says. It’s a little sloppy but it’s definitely pleased, and Grantaire officially gives up.

Grantaire clears his throat. “Come on,” he says, as though he’s just picking up the conversation again, “You’ve got to stand up, now.”

This time, Enjolras gets up without a fuss, which leaves Grantaire absolutely no choice but to look over at their audience. It’s not just Courfeyrac, who could potentially have been begged into staying quiet, it’s both of them.

Combeferre steps in and gets one of Enjolras’s arms across his shoulder, helping him stay upright, and gives Grantaire a tight nod. “I’ve got him,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a dismissal, but it’s also not exactly _friendly_.

“Cool, good.” Grantaire shoves his hands in his pockets and wonders how the hell he’s supposed to carry on with his life, after this. 

Courfeyrac squeezes his wrist. “What was that?” he asks.

“A kiss,” Grantaire answers blankly. He still can’t believe it.

Courfeyrac looks at him then shakes his head. “Okay, we’ll talk tomorrow.” He slides his hand down Grantaire’s wrist to squeeze his hand then spins away, artfully sliding under Enjolras’s other arm. “Come on, drunky, it’s home time.”

“Where’s R?” Enjolras asks, looking around. He doesn’t quite have the coordination required to look all the way over his shoulder and actually see Grantaire.

Grantaire’s heart is having a terrible time of it, because it stops still at that. Enjolras _never_ calls him R.

“Leave him alone,” Combeferre says. Weirdly, he sounds as cross with Enjolras as he did with Grantaire.

“Yeah, he needs a locked door and a hot shower,” Courfeyrac says.

Grantaire doesn’t know if he means he thinks Grantaire needs to cry or to wank, but since Grantaire doesn’t know which he needs either, he just mutters, “Fuck you,” under his breath.

He stays back and watches the three of them get ready to leave, Courfeyrac and Combeferre propping Enjolras up between them. It’s just like the last few years of school all over again: the three of them forming this tight little knot, perfectly supporting each other.

Grantaire backs up a step and then another, sliding backwards into the crowd. 

He knows they’re going to want to say goodnight to him, but he suddenly can’t cope with that. Enjolras might look at him again, and he might smile again, and Grantaire has always tried to avoid false hope wherever possible.

He keeps his eyes on them, sees first Enjolras and then the others look around for him. He ducks behind the nearest tall person - ah, the blessings of being short - and slides around the corner of the bar.

He stares blankly down at the scarred wooden bartop, but he doesn’t feel the need to buy a drink. His lips taste of beer and wine and vodka from Enjolras’s mouth and apparently he’s so pathetic that that’s enough for him, tonight.

***

There are two texts on his phone when he wakes up in the morning. The first is from Fantine, which just says _Hope you had a good night. There’s breakfast on the counter x_

Grantaire smiles at it and wonders if twenty is too old to ask someone to officially adopt you.

The second text is from a number Grantaire doesn’t recognise: _Dinner at mine tonight. Everyone come!_

Well, Grantaire’s social life has greatly improved since getting home. _Who is this?_ he texts back, assuming someone has changed their number and forgotten to tell him.

_Musichetta_ comes the reply. _You don’t know me. Looking forward to meeting you tonight._

Okay, cool. 

_Who’s Musichetta?_ Grantaire sends to Courfeyrac, Combeferre and, because he’s feeling insane and he’s not awake enough to consider how terrible an idea it is, to Enjolras.

The replies come all at once, which makes Grantaire imagine the three of them out somewhere, eating breakfast together.

**_Combeferre_ **

_Joly’s girlfriend_.

**_Enjolras_ **

_Bossuet’s girlfriend._

**_Courfeyrac_ **

_The jam in the Joly / Bossuet sandwich ;)_

Grantaire is so curious. He’s curious enough that he actually gets out of bed and into the shower without letting his usual morning laziness drag him back down into the pillows.

There is breakfast in the kitchen, just as Fantine promised, so Grantaire lets himself out the backdoor to eat it at her tiny garden table. 

The sun is shining and it’s already warm out, even in the shade. Somewhere around Grantaire’s third cup of coffee, a cat meanders out from the bushes and rubs against his legs a few times before flopping down in the sun near Grantaire’s bare toes.

It’s all pretty idyllic. Grantaire is feeling calm in a way he never feels, happy almost. If he works at it, he can remember Enjolras kissing him last night, and he can smile about it, and he can tell himself he doesn’t expect anything else to come of it.

Nothing about this weird lack of anxiety is going to last, but he’s really enjoying it while it happens.

Then his phone rings, shattering the stillness. It’s almost a relief, the way Grantaire’s heart kickstarts back into its usual nervous pounding. Feeling happy is scary; he never knows how he’s supposed to react to it.

“Hi, ‘Ponine,” he says, sinking back into his chair and getting sun in his eyes.

She doesn’t answer straight away. All Grantaire can hear is the sound of her breathing, fast and a little out of control.

“Éponine?” he asks.

“If I kill my parents, will you cover for me?” she asks. She sounds deathly serious.

“Yes,” Grantaire says without a doubt. Then, “Have you killed them?”

She laughs in a way that might be a sob. “I would,” she says. “I really, really would, but - ”

But then she’d go to prison, her brothers and sister would have no one. “Yeah,” Grantaire says softly. “What have they done?”

“Ugh, the fucking usual,” she says. “They went to some party, a guy got stabbed right in front of them, and I ended up having to bail Dad out of jail. I just… do I have to parent all of them? All the time?”

Grantaire makes a soft noise, trying to sound soothing. He doesn’t know how she hasn’t already had a breakdown. “Can I do anything?”

“Other than the alibi?” Éponine asks, then laughs harshly. “I might land on your doorstep one of these days. Would that be okay?”

“Of course, totally. Come and stay whenever you like.” Grantaire doesn’t think Fantine would mind. She takes in waifs and strays all the time.

(Well, him. She took in him. But you don’t get much waifier or strayer.)

Éponine hums. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll pretend that’s actually going to happen and use it as a dream to get me through the days. Paris. How lovely.”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Grantaire says, even though he grew up here, so he probably doesn’t appreciate it like he should.

“So, what have you been doing?” Éponine asks, a really obvious attempt at changing the subject. “Tell me about the mystery boy.”

She sounds exhausted, so Grantaire actually does tell her. “He kissed me last night,” he says.

“What?” Éponine says. “I thought he was a lost cause?”

“Oh god, no, he is.” Grantaire kicks his feet up onto the table. He feels strangely cheerful even though he’s still a pining idiot. “He was just drunk and I was there.”

“Send me a picture,” Éponine says. “I need to see the face of the guy who makes you sigh like that.”

“I didn’t sigh,” Grantaire says, putting her over onto speaker while he fiddles with his phone. “Did I?” It isn’t hard to find a picture of Enjolras, even though they’re all years old. Grantaire has transferred all his pictures from one phone to the next, because he’s pathetic and terrible and couldn’t bare to lose the faces of his friends.

“Hm,” she says, after he’s sent the photo and put the phone back up to his ear. “Not bad… a bit Disney princess.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t add that Enjolras’s pretty blue eyes and his golden curls are what drew Grantaire in, in the first place. She knows him well enough to guess that.

“Who’s the cutie next to him?” she asks. “With the dark hair.”

“That’s Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says. The cat has woken up and is sniffing the undersides of Grantaire’s knees. There are giant holes in the backs of the jeans he’s wearing and it tickles. 

“That’s the one I spoke to,” Éponine says. She makes a noise like she’d be punching him, if they were face to face. “You didn’t tell me he was cute.”

“I forgot?” Grantaire tries. He knows Courfeyrac is hot, but Grantaire’s had very specific, Enjolras-shaped blinkers on for as long as he’s been interested in sex and boys and dating; the rest of his friends tend to get forgotten.

“R,” Éponine sighs, but she sounds affectionate when she says it. It’s nice to know that she’ll love him no matter what; he just wishes he knew how to fix her problems, in return.

***

Musichetta turns out to be small and very curvy with flawless skin and bright, dark eyes. She’s gorgeous, basically, and sharp and smart, and she makes Grantaire want to ask her if she’s in the market for a third, fairly gay, boyfriend.

“So how did you meet these two?” Grantaire asks, waving a breadstick up the table to where Musichetta is sitting at the head, Bossuet to her right and Joly on the other side of him.

Musichetta laughs. “Oh, I met Joly in lectures and Bossuet on campus and I thought I might as well date them both. Then it turned out they knew each other, so that was a little awkward.”

Grantaire laughs too. “So are all of you together or… Ow. What?” Someone just trod on his foot. Marius is next to him, so if was him, it was probably an accident. Enjolras is directly opposite Grantaire, but he looks too hungover to be stamping on anyone.

“They don’t have an answer to that, yet,” Combeferre says, from Grantaire’s other side. 

“Right,” Grantaire says and subsides. Far be it for him to push anyone, but if Joly and Bossuet _are_ about to start sleeping together, he wishes they could have done it back at school. Then he might not have felt so alone.

Courfeyrac picks up the conversation, asking Bahorel about something that happened at some party Grantaire wasn’t around for. 

Grantaire goes back to his dinner, chasing cold vegetables with his fork, while trying not to look across the table. He’s been trying so hard not to spend dinner staring at Enjolras, but it’s getting increasingly hard. 

Enjolras is pushing his dinner around his plate and looking a little pale and hungover. Normally that would give Grantaire a kind of vindictive pleasure, but tonight all he can do is think about exactly what happened while Enjolras was drunk and it spoils all his fun.

“Are you all right?” Joly asks, frowning at Enjolras.

Enjolras nods jerkily then looks like he regrets that. “Probably just a bug,” he says, then stands up abruptly, “excuse me.”

He leaves the table so fast that he misses the way Joly freezes and the colour leaves his face, but Grantaire doesn’t. He tries to catch Joly’s eye, but Joly is staring resolutely down at his own food, instead.

Conversation is still buzzing happily around the rest of the table, when Enjolras comes back. He looks flushed and a little sweaty, but also happier than before. He settles back into his chair and actually gets some food into his mouth.

“Swap with me,” Joly says, probably a little louder than he meant to because the people sitting around him stop talking.

“Sure,” Bossuet says and gets up, letting Joly scramble into his empty chair and further away from Enjolras. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Joly shakes his head, but Grantaire can see that he’s shaking, the way the rise and fall of his chest is stop-start at best. He knows exactly how that feels.

“Enjolras, how’s the hangover?” Grantaire asks, loud enough that he hopes it’ll cut through Joly’s panic attack.

Enjolras drops his fork and stares at him with narrowed, betrayed eyes for a long moment. Around the table, people start to laugh and a couple of people whoop. “Fine, thank you,” Enjolras snaps.

“Hangover?” Joly asks, looking at Grantaire who nods quickly. Joly closes his eyes and smiles, slowly uncurling in relief.

Enjolras is glaring daggers at Grantaire, of course, but Grantaire doesn’t care. Enjolras should try being less of dick and maybe consider how his actions affect other people.

Joly, obviously.

Not Grantaire.

At all.

“Hangover, E?” Bahorel asks. He laughs, as though that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Where were you getting drunk and why weren’t we invited?”

“There’s video,” Courfeyrac offers. He pulls out his phone and starts waving it around.

That gets the betrayed eyes on him and off Grantaire, for a minute. “Of _what_?” Enjolras asks. It’s closer to a whine than he’s probably happy with. “You said I didn’t do anything embarrassing.”

Now everyone’s looking at him. It’s odd to be on this end of someone else’s drunken regret.

“Don’t you remember?” Feuilly asks. He sounds a little worried. “How drunk are we talking?”

“I remember things,” Enjolras says with great dignity. His cheeks are red and it would be hilarious, except Grantaire is suddenly desperate to find out exactly _which_ things Enjolras remembers or, more importantly, which he doesn’t.

When Grantaire looks up, Combeferre is looking at him and Enjolras conspicuously isn’t. Grantaire looks away before Combeferre’s expression can turn sympathetic or accusing or whatever.

“It was Grantaire’s first night back,” Enjolras says. “We were celebrating.”

“Right,” Marius says slowly. No one looks convinced and oh, wow, that really hurts. Grantaire knows how unlikely it is that Enjolras would celebrate him returning anywhere (except maybe back to Provence and out of his life), but he’d rather everyone else didn’t make it quite so obvious that they know, too.

“Which is also what we are supposed to be doing, right now,” Musichetta says pointedly. She has one hand over Joly’s, squeezing tight, and she uses the other to tap her fork against her glass. “Someone make a speech and make Grantaire feel welcome.”

“Oh my god, no, please no speech,” Grantaire says, covering his face with one hand. “I’m only back for the Easter holidays, not from war.”

Musichetta shakes her head fondly. “The way this lot talk about you, it’s as though you moved to the moon.”

_They talk about me?_ Grantaire wants to ask, but that’s pathetic, so he swallows it down. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says in a stage whisper. “Starfleet don’t like us to talk about it.”

Enjolras was apparently paying more attention than Grantaire knew, because he leans forward. “That’s Star… Wars?” he guesses after a pause.

Courfeyrac groans and slaps his forehead. “So close,” he says. “So close and yet so completely wrong.”

Enjolras huffs and shrugs. “It’s all the same.”

That starts a conversation about how it is all very much _not_ the same, but Grantaire doesn’t join in. He watches Enjolras and feels confused. That was a deliberate attempt to distract everyone, he’s certain of it. Grantaire does that a lot when he’s uncomfortable and Courfeyrac does it when someone else is uncomfortable, but he’s never seen _Enjolras_ do it before.

Enjolras catches his eye and nods his head toward the kitchen. Still confused, but game, Grantaire stands up and follows him.

It’s a nice kitchen, big and shiny and much better than anything he’s ever seen in a student house, before.

“What does Musichetta do?” Grantaire asks, once Enjolras joins him. He’s going to guess _not_ be a student, anymore.

“She works as an analyst,” Enjolras says, words bitten off as though that wasn’t the conversation he was expecting to have and they’ve been surprised out of him.

“Cool,” Grantaire says. “Are Joly and Bossuet sleeping with each other or just with her?”

“I… I don’t know.” Enjolras looks as though he’s never even considered it. Grantaire wouldn’t be surprised if that were true. Sex and relationships have never really pinged Enjolras’s radar.

Grantaire swings his arms, out of questions. “So. Did you want something or are we just chatting?” They don’t chat, haven’t for the last five years, so it won’t be that.

Enjolras leans in closer, lowering his voice. “I know you’re angry with me, but was there any need to humiliate me?” he asks.

Grantaire blinks. “Firstly… okay, no, we’ll deal with firstly in a minute. Secondly, I wasn’t trying to humiliate you. When did I humiliate you?”

Enjolras frowns as though Grantaire is being deliberately obtuse. “When you told everyone that I was hungover,” he says.

Oh. “Oh! Enjolras, I hate to break it to you, but not everything is about pissing you off. I said that because you were freaking Joly out.”

“I was what?” Enjolras asks, clearly derailed. “Why?”

Ugh. Enjolras’s obliviousness would be cute, if it weren’t so all-consuming. “Because you were sitting next to him, looking like death, and then you went away to puke. He was working himself up into a panic attack; he needed to know it wasn’t anything contagious.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, deflating. He rubs his head as though he still has a headache. “Shit, I didn’t think of that.”

“You never do,” Grantaire tells him. “And now, what’s this thing about me being angry with you? Why would I be angry?”

Enjolras’s guilty expression gives way to an even guiltier one. “Because of the kiss.”

The Kiss. Grantaire thinks it deserves capitals, even if Enjolras probably doesn’t. “Which kiss?” he asks, and earns a glare. “Oh, that one? Why would I be angry about that?”

Confused, terrified, horny, sure. But not angry.

“I…” Enjolras leans back against Musichetta’s fridge and looks tired down to his bones. “I exaggerated how much I remember about the end of last night,” he admits. “But I distinctly recall you saying ‘please don’t,’ and I kissed you anyway and that’s unconscionable.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire says then tries to pretend he didn’t. “I don’t think an unwanted kiss is the end of the world, Enjolras. Definitely nothing to get angry about.”

Somehow, Enjolras just looks even more exhausted; it’s like his body no longer wants to stick to his usual straight lines. “So it _was_ unwant…” he starts then shakes his head as though to knock the question away. He manages to stand up a little straighter. “You asked me not to kiss you and I did. That may not be the end of the world, but it was rude of me and I apologise.”

“That’s okay,” Grantaire says faintly. He feels bad; of course it wasn’t unwanted. There’s no way of saying that without explaining how very _wanted_ it was, though.

“Are you - ?” Enjolras starts to say at the same time Grantaire says, “Look - ”

They both break off awkwardly and Enjolras gestures for Grantaire to go on. “Look,” Grantaire says again. “You’re new to the whole kissing guys thing, right?”

Enjolras hesitates then nods. 

Grantaire feels relieved even though that’s stupid and selfish. It shouldn’t matter to him that he was Enjolras’s first guy kiss, it really shouldn’t. “So, clearly you were just looking for lips to kiss and you knew I wouldn’t be a dick about it.”

“You’re a dick about everything,” Enjolras says, but it sounds automatic so Grantaire isn’t (too) offended.

“And here I was going to offer to do a nice thing for you,” Grantaire sighs.

“What nice thing?” Enjolras asks. He’s shifted a little closer, so Grantaire takes a step back, just to preserve what little is left of his sanity.

“You need to meet boys,” he tells Enjolras. This is a good plan; he doesn’t know why his heart is sinking, while his mouth is moving. “I know where all the hot boys hang out, so I’m going to take you out.”

Enjolras’s eyebrows furrow. “No,” he says slowly. “No, that’s not what I want, at all.”

Grantaire grins, bright and incredibly fake. “Of course it is! Don’t be silly. We’ll go out, you’ll have fun and _maybe_ I’ll be able to forgive you for kissing me against my will.”

“That’s incredibly unfair,” Enjolras tells him, but he’s almost smiling, which is much better than how he was looking earlier.

“Yes,” Grantaire agrees. “Are we done?” He tries to smile pleasantly, and not give any indication that he’d be happy to stand awkwardly in the kitchen with Enjolras all night.

They get some weird looks when they rejoin the group, but Musichetta is apparently an angel since she keeps the conversation flowing and doesn’t let anyone ask where they disappeared off to.

There’s dessert followed by coffee after the main course is cleared away. It all feels very classy and adult, and Grantaire wonders if this is how the rest of their lives will go: everyone meeting for dinner at each other’s houses, even when they’re fifty years old with families of their own.

He won’t be there, of course, he’ll be a starving artist in London or New York or Rome, but he hopes for everyone else’s sakes that it does carry on like this.

“So what are we doing now?” Jehan asks. “Musain?”

“No,” Enjolras says firmly. Grantaire wonders if he’s having flashbacks. 

“Of course not you,” Jehan laughs, “I was talking to the fun people.”

Enjolras glares, while most of the others agree that the Musain sounds like their idea of a good time. Grantaire, of course, will be going along with them. No one even asks him; it’s just taken as read.

While everyone’s getting their coats, Grantaire’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out, expecting Éponine, but it’s not her, it’s Enjolras.

_You’re on._

Grantaire looks across the room to where Enjolras is talking seriously to Joly, but Enjolras doesn’t look back.

_Did you just get double dared into going to a gay bar?_ Grantaire writes back. _And are you texting with the power of your mind?_

Enjolras twitches slightly as though his phone has just vibrated somewhere on his person, but he doesn’t check it, and he still doesn’t look at Grantaire.

***

“This is horrible,” Enjolras says, stepping away from stumbling drunk people and closer to Grantaire.

Grantaire knows that second bit is coincidental, but he still enjoys it.

“It’s just a club, Enjolras,” Grantaire says patiently, steering Enjolras to the bar with a hand on the small of his back.

“It’s loud,” Enjolras shouts back over his shoulder.

Grantaire rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer that. This isn’t his favourite club in the city, but it’s the least likely to freak Enjolras out, since it’s gay-friendly but not gay-exclusive. Grantaire’s _favourite_ clubs tend more toward drag kings and queens on a tiny makeshift stage and penetrative sex in the toilets, but he didn’t think Enjolras was quite ready for that.

Actually, he doesn’t think Enjolras will ever be ready for that. Enjolras is side-eyeing people, gay and straight, just for groping each other in his vicinity.

“What’re you having?” Grantaire asks, snagging them both a space at the bar and leaning over it so he can get the bartender’s attention.

“Coke,” Enjolras says and squares his jaw so Grantaire knows there’s no use arguing with him.

“With rum?” he asks hopefully, but the look on Enjolras’s face answers for him. “This is going to be no fun, if you’re sober.”

“That’s a pity,” Enjolras says in a tone that implies it’s anything but, “because I’m never drinking again.”

“Ever?” Grantaire asks. “It wasn’t _that_ bad, was it?”

“I enjoyed some parts of it,” Enjolras admits. “But overall, it is not something I’m looking to repeat.”

_Which parts did you enjoy?_ Grantaire wants to demand, but he can’t. Instead, he places Enjolras’s order with the bartender and orders a beer for himself.

“What?” he asks when he notices Enjolras frowning at him. 

“You don’t have to limit your drinking simply because I am,” Enjolras says. A big group of noisy guys has joined them to their right, so he has to lean in close to make himself heard.

Grantaire lets himself smile at Enjolras’s stubborn, worried expression for a moment, before shaking his head. “I can’t show you a good time, if I’m plastered, can I?”

He pays the bartender and hands Enjolras his drink. “If anyone asks, that has alcohol in it,” he says. “Okay?”

“Why?” Enjolras says then takes a sip as though to check that it doesn’t actually.

Grantaire picks up his beer and starts to lead them over to a table. “Because otherwise well-meaning people will be trying to force booze on you all night.”

Enjolras looks horrified. It should be funny, but it’s mostly sort of sweet. Grantaire hates the way his heart and his brain get together to betray him, sometimes.

There are no spare tables, but they find an empty patch of wall to lean against, where they can look down onto the dance floor. Enjolras sips at his Coke and Grantaire reminds himself repeatedly not to down his beer.

“Now what?” Enjolras asks. His eyes have been stuck on a couple of slow dancing lesbians for the last song and a half.

“Well, I think they’re probably working their way up to some kissing,” Grantaire muses, leaning in so his head is closer to Enjolras’s.

Enjolras turns to look at him and oh, wow, that’s far too close, now. “Not with them, with us.”

Grantaire gulps. “Us?”

Enjolras is looking at him really, really intently. Grantaire knows he should move away, but he doesn’t. “Yes,” he says, a tiny smile curling his lips. “Weren’t you supposed to introduce me to attractive men, so I’d no longer want to kiss you?”

Grantaire’s breath gets stuck in his lungs, so his words spill out painfully, breathlessly. “That wasn’t what I meant. Also, what?”

Enjolras shrugs, and his smile ramps up. It’s devastating. 

“Okay, so, dancing?” Grantaire asks, desperately. He abandons his beer and drags Enjolras away from his Coke. 

“I have no idea how to dance,” Enjolras says when they carve themselves out a space on the dance floor. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying to put his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders though.

Grantaire laughs and shrugs him off. “Not with _me_ ,” he says. He looks around wildly until he spots some people he vaguely recognises. “Let’s join them, come on. You have to dance with at least three boys before tonight can be considered a sex… a sexcess. A success. Fuck.”

Enjolras is definitely laughing at him. This is a terrible, terrible idea. Worst, it’s _Grantaire’s_ terrible idea, so he has to stick it out.

“Shut up,” Grantaire says. Then he shoves Enjolras at the first reasonably attractive boy they stumble upon. “Dance.”

Surprisingly, _astonishingly_ , Enjolras actually does. He’s not very good at it and he doesn’t smile or do anything alluring, but the guy Grantaire thrust him at still dances with him. 

If Grantaire were thinking about why, he’d probably decide it’s because Enjolras is very, very pretty. But Grantaire’s not thinking about that. He’s dancing with his own guy (one of the ones he recognises; he’s not looking to get laid tonight) and if he’s also watching Enjolras, it’s just to check he’s doing okay.

The song ends and so does the one after, so Grantaire makes them switch partners. Enjolras’s partner looks disgruntled, but Grantaire’s just looks amused.

The guy Grantaire is dancing with now wraps a long arm around Grantaire and pulls him in close. “That your boyfriend?” he asks, breath warm on Grantaire’s neck and hips writhing against Grantaire’s thigh.

“No.” Grantaire laughs and presses back against him. Enjolras was doing this a couple of minutes ago, it should be like doing it _with_ Enjolras, but it’s not. It just makes Grantaire feel cold.

The guy’s hands travel down Grantaire’s sides until they’re cupping his hips. He’s attractive and it feels nice. This is usually when Grantaire would start making not-so-subtle moves toward a more private spot.

Suddenly, a hand lands on his shoulder and his yanked rather abruptly out of his half-grind. “Okay, that’s two,” Enjolras says. “You said I have to dance with three people, didn’t you?”

Grantaire blinks. Enjolras has worked up a sweat, curls turning limp and straightening out so his hair looks much longer, strands of it stuck to his forehead. His shirt is wrinkled at the front as though someone made a fist in it and it’s hiked up on one side just high enough that Grantaire can see a triangle of skin at his hip.

“What?” Grantaire asks uselessly.

Enjolras steps into his space, all purpose and confidence. “Dance with me?” he asks.

“No, no, that’s not the point,” Grantaire says, babbles, okay, he babbles it. “You’re supposed to be meeting people. New people.”

“I already know a lot of people,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. “Please, dance with me.”

Fuck. Shit. Grantaire should have had a lot more to drink. “Why?” he asks, blankly.

“Because I want to.” Enjolras looks down before looking back up at Grantaire from under his eyelashes. It looks shy, but it’s probably deliberate. Grantaire hates him a little bit. “You want to, too.”

“Do I?” Grantaire asks, but it’s no good. He lets himself succumb to Enjolras’s reaching hands and then they’re chest to chest and there’s really no where else Grantaire has ever wanted to be.

Enjolras is warm, radiating heat, and sticky with sweat. Grantaire’s no better off, so their shirts slide together, gliding together then apart. 

Dancing with Enjolras is nothing like dancing with anyone else. For a start, Grantaire is so scared, he can barely focus on what’s happening. For another, Enjolras’s tiny, awkward touches to his back and shoulders turn him on about six hundred percent more than blatant groping ever has.

The music changes tempo to something slower, and Grantaire finds himself drifting into the spread of Enjolras’s arms, before he can stop himself.

Enjolras sighs, looping his arms around Grantaire’s waist and resting his hands on Grantaire’s spine. It makes Grantaire feel small, almost fragile, which isn’t something he usually feels, not physically anyway. 

“This isn’t what was supposed to happen,” Grantaire complains, but he lets his head rest on Enjolras’s shoulder, anyway.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Enjolras’s hands clench until the tips of his fingers threaten to bruise Grantaire’s skin. Grantaire would love to wear those bruises, he really would.

“You’re never sorry,” Grantaire says. Enjolras doesn’t respond, so Grantaire assumes he didn’t hear, but it’s too loud in here to bother repeating it. 

They’re barely dancing, anymore. Enjolras is touching Grantaire’s back, exploring the length of his spine like it’s braille to be read, and Grantaire is just clinging on for dear life. One of them is shaking, and Grantaire assumes it’s him, but eventually he realises that it might be both of them.

Enjolras hasn’t said anything for a while. His breath is uneven in Grantaire’s ear.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asks, pulling back.

Enjolras’s face is wet. It’s shocking enough that Grantaire moves before he can second guess himself. 

“Come on,” he says, wrapping a hand around Enjolras’s wrist. “Let’s get some air.”

Out in the alleyway at the back of the club, Enjolras leans his head back against the brickwork and seems to fight himself for control. Grantaire snagged water from the bar on their way out and he presses it on Enjolras now.

“I’m not drunk,” Enjolras says, but takes it, anyway.

“I know,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t say _you’re crying, why are you crying? I’m not cut out to deal with you crying, I can’t stand the thought of you feeling sad._

He waits for Enjolras to talk and then waits a little longer, but Enjolras just closes his eyes and seems content to stand there. There are people getting off in the shadows five feet away from them, but Enjolras doesn’t seem bothered by that.

“What did I do wrong?” Grantaire asks, when he can’t stand it any longer.

At least that gets Enjolras’s eyes open. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I enjoyed myself.”

Grantaire snorts. “Yes, you look like it.” He drags the toe of his converse along the ground. “You know, you can tell me if I’m pushing you into things you don’t like. I know I push you a lot, but I never… I never mean it.”

Enjolras reaches out for him and Grantaire lets his hands be held, Enjolras’s thumbs brushing over his wrists. 

“I enjoyed myself,” he repeats. “The, um. The emotion I experienced had nothing to do with that.”

_Emotion_ , Grantaire thinks wildly. He wants to tease him, but he can’t. “Want to talk about it?”

Enjolras shakes his head, but he does talk. Of course he does; Enjolras always talks. “I’ve never been scared of anything,” he says, which yeah, Grantaire already knew that, “but I was terrified of coming out. While we were dancing, it hit me that I’d done it, that I didn’t need to be scared of it, anymore.”

“Oh.” If this were one of their usual arguments, Grantaire would throw in his face all the new things he needs to be scared of, as an out gay man. He wouldn’t dream of doing that to Enjolras now, though. “So that was a happy… emotion?”

Enjolras tucks his thumbs under the beads Grantaire is wearing around his wrists. “Mostly. I do wish my parents had reacted better, of course.” 

Grantaire shakes his hands free and pulls Enjolras into a hug. “I’m sorry they suck,” he says, smoothing a hand through Enjolras’s hair until Enjolras tucks his head into Grantaire’s neck. It can’t be comfortable, given their height difference, but Enjolras lets out a long sigh, anyway.

“R,” Enjolras says, eventually.

“Why have you started calling me that?” Grantaire asks, trying to change the subject, because Enjolras’s tone makes his heart start beating in triple time. 

“I always wanted to,” Enjolras says. “This is part of me being brave.”

Grantaire frowns. “Calling me a terrible pun is part of being brave?”

“ _You’re_ part of being brave,” Enjolras corrects. “I’ve missed you.”

A dirty sex alley in a dirty part of Paris is really not the place to be having this conversation. “Let’s go somewhere nicer,” Grantaire says. “Come on.”

Enjolras’s hand slips into Grantaire’s, oddly pliant, while Grantaire leads them down the alley and out onto the street. There’s a cafe down the road, which he knows stays open late, so they head there.

The waitress is one Grantaire doesn’t recognise. She still looks them over, from their clasped hands to their sweat-damp t-shirts, and winks at them.

_This isn’t a pick up_ , he wants to tell her, but who knows, maybe it is. Nothing is turning out how Grantaire expects, these days.

They takes seats on one side of a table for four. There’s a rectangular mirror running the length of the wall above them, but Grantaire deliberately avoids looking in it. He has no need to know what terrified and or hopeful thing his face is currently doing.

They order coffees and Enjolras gets an almond croissant that he breaks in half and shares with Grantaire, when it arrives.

“Do you remember when we were friends?” Enjolras asks, crumbling an almond between his fingers.

“Best friends,” Grantaire agrees, trying to sound as though he doesn’t spend half his time dwelling on that. Enjolras has been the centre of his world since they were eleven, but back then, Enjolras felt the same way. Or something like it, at least.

Enjolras looks up, expression soft. “What happened?” he asks. “I never knew.”

Grantaire pushes back from the table. He’s not going to get up and leave, but he’d like to pretend that he could. “Nothing,” he lies. “You got to know Combeferre and then Courfeyrac. People drift apart.”

“I got to know Combeferre and Courfeyrac _because_ you became tired of me,” Enjolras says. Grantaire wishes he were a normal person and would avoid talking about things like this. 

“I didn’t!” Grantaire says then sits back, rubbing his face. “I can’t talk about this. Can we please… can we talk about something else? How did you like your first gay bar experience?”

Enjolras leans back in his chair, looking tired, again. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll do it your way. I enjoyed my first gay bar experience, but it’s not something I’d like to repeat.”

Grantaire picks up his coffee cup and stirs some sugar into it. “No?”

“No. I don’t want to date anyone there.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “We’re not talking dating, just some fun.”

“I don’t like fun,” Enjolras says flatly. 

Grantaire laughs, ducking his head. He wants to press his smile into Enjolras’s shoulder. _I love you_ , he thinks wildly.

Almost like he heard, Enjolras puts down his own coffee cup and touches Grantaire’s wrist. “Am I not making this obvious enough?” he asks. “It’s you I want to take out on a date. Why won’t you let me?”

Grantaire has to be hallucinating. There’s no other explanation for any of this. “Why do you want to?” he asks faintly.

Enjolras looks as though he wasn’t expecting that question. “I like you,” he says earnestly.

“You really, really don’t.” Grantaire laughs over his own words, incredulous and a little hurt that Enjolras would tease him like that.

“I really, really do,” Enjolras says, still infuriatingly calm. “I always have. You…”

“What?” Grantaire interrupts, even though he knows Enjolras will get there on his own. He just can’t wait that long.

Enjolras sighs at him. “Irritate me,” he says. “Enrage me, excite me.”

“And you like that?” Grantaire asks doubtfully.

“I do when it’s you.” Enjolras ducks his head and, this time, it doesn’t seem calculated. “I may have occasionally dreamt of stopping one of our arguments with a kiss.”

Grantaire laughs hysterically. “I may have dreamt of that exact same thing.”

Enjolras leans closer. “Can I, then?” he asks.

Grantaire swallows hard. He’s ninety percent certain he’s about to throw up. “I don’t think we’re arguing now, are we?”

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras whispers. 

Grantaire nods jerkily. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, obviously.”

Enjolras touches the backs of his fingers to the underside of Grantaire’s jaw, tilting his chin up. He smiles before he leans in, so Grantaire smiles back automatically. It makes the kiss harder to line up, but they make up for it, Grantaire parting his lips and Enjolras turning his head slightly. Their lips press and cling, just a gentle kiss, but it makes Grantaire’s whole body tingle with butterflies.

It hits Grantaire that this is their second kiss, and for some reason that seems hilarious.

“What?” Enjolras asks when Grantaire’s helpless to stop his laughter.

“That’s our second kiss,” Grantaire says. He grabs the back of Enjolras’s neck, pulling him forward. Enjolras goes easily, another damp slide of lips. “And that was our third.”

“Are you going to count them all?” Enjolras asks. He’s still smiling. He’s been smiling since he knew Grantaire would kiss him. Grantaire wonders whether he died one drunken night in Provence and this is his heaven.

“How many more will there be?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras stands up, holds out a hand for him. “Do you want to find out?”

Grantaire makes a sound that isn’t a word and puts his hand in Enjolras’s.

***

Enjolras takes him to Combeferre’s even though they’d have more privacy at Fantine’s.

(“I can’t wait that long,” he tells Grantaire’s lips, his tongue, pressing him up against the glass wall of the bus shelter. 

Grantaire clings to him, knees weak and cock hard. “Mm hmm,” he agrees, although to be fair, he’d agree to anything in that moment.)

Enjolras has his own room at Combeferre’s house and it comes with a lock on the door. They get that far and then Grantaire’s trembling suddenly gives way to shaking and he has to sit down on the bed.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks, sliding down onto the floor in front of him and resting his forearms on Grantaire’s thighs. 

Grantaire blinks down at him, but it’s too pretty a picture to deal with when he’s already freaking out, so he slides off the bed until they’re kneeling opposite each other on the floor. The carpet is soft under his knees. There’s a clock on the wall that’s ticking loudly. 

“We only have to do what you want to do,” Grantaire says, wondering if he’s talking to both of them. “I’m not expecting anything.”

Enjolras nods. He looks less confident than he did outside, too. Grantaire wonders if he’s changing his mind about Grantaire or just about how ready he is for big gay sex. If it’s him, Grantaire’s not sure what he’ll do.

“Come here?” Enjolras says. Grantaire does and they kiss again, getting deeper and messier the longer it goes on. Grantaire shifts and so does Enjolras, and Grantaire finds himself straddling Enjolras’s thighs, leaning down over him so they don’t break the kiss.

"You can, you can sit on me," Enjolras says, between kisses.

"Sit on your lap, you mean?" Grantaire asks, and for some reason that hits him as another of those ludicrous, impossible things and he starts laughing again.

"I am really going to develop a complex," Enjolras says. He sounds grumpy. Grumpy is one of Grantaire's favourite sounds from him, along with bitchy and snarky and just plain mean. Grantaire probably has some issues, but he's not too concerned about working through them.

"Sorry," Grantaire says, shuddering when Enjolras's fingers graze his belt and then his waistband, curling around the top of his jeans. He gives in to the tugging, when the feeling of Enjolras's warm fingers against his skin gets too much, and finds himself sitting on Enjolras's lap.

Sitting.

On Enjolras's lap.

Yes, this is actually happening.

Enjolras hums. "Better," he says. He curls his hands around Grantaire's waist and holds him still while they go back to kissing. The kissing is very nice, as is sitting on Enjolras's lap, but the problem is that Grantaire is very hard right now, and his jeans are very tight. Spreading his legs so that his knees can fit on either side of Enjolras's thigh is doing nothing for his comfort levels.

He shifts a little, trying to be subtle, but the tight denim somehow ends up squashing his balls even more. "Ugh, sorry," he says, pulling back. "That angle doesn't work for me." He doesn't want to mention his cock, just in case Enjolras freaks out. He doesn't think Enjolras has forgotten he has one, not exactly, but it's possible he hasn't really thought it through.

"What would you prefer?" Enjolras asks, instantly surprisingly solicitous. 

Grantaire shakes his head. Being made to make decisions is a bit much, when he's faced with all this. "Bed?" he suggests, grabbing at an idea that Enjolras probably won't hate.

Enjolras looks nervous, then he looks annoyed with himself, then he looks determined. "Yes," he says, firmly.

Grantaire’s cheeks are hot, which is stupid. He doesn't blush about sex. He's had a lot of sex, most of it in far more embarrassing places than a bed. "Well, don't sound like I'm twisting your arm," he says.

"That's not at all how I sound," Enjolras snaps back. Then he sighs and rubs his face, which isn't usual for him. He doesn't usually capitulate. "I'm sorry. I'm nervous."

Grantaire immediately forgets about his own nerves and his own pride. "That's okay," he says, sitting back down on Enjolras's thighs, even though it still hurts. "Enjolras, seriously, that's okay. We can take this as slowly as you want. Or... or we don't have to do anything. I could go."

"No." Enjolras's hands go back to Grantaire's belt, holding on tightly this time. "Let's go to bed."

If Grantaire's dick was having problems before, it's nothing on what hearing those words does to it. "You may have to carry me," he says, "I've gone weak at the knee." Then he squawks, grabbing onto Enjolras's shoulders, when Enjolras makes a pretty decent attempt at actually trying to lift him.

"I probably could, if the angle were better," Enjolras says, wrapping his arms around Grantaire's waist and rolling up onto his knees. 

"It's okay, I'm not looking for a rugged, he-man," Grantaire says, climbing off him and standing up. "I go for the more intellectual type."

Enjolras takes the hand Grantaire holds down to him. "I don't know whether to be offended or not," he says, thoughtfully. He gets to his feet and starts eyeing the bed wearily again, so Grantaire steps up to him and puts his arms around him.

It's not quite a hug, but it's also not completely sexual. It's just... Grantaire wanting to be of some use, of some support, while Enjolras does something he finds scary. 

"We should remove our clothes before lying down," Enjolras decides, like there's a bullet point list of actions in his head. Hell, there probably is.

"We really shouldn't," Grantaire says, stopping Enjolras when his hands fall to the zip on his trousers. His brain calls him an idiot for stopping Enjolras, when he was just about to get his dick out, but Grantaire doesn't like his brain, so he's certainly not going to listen to it. "Let's start slower than that."

"How much slower?" Enjolras asks, but he sounds relieved. 

"Shirts," Grantaire decides. "That's a good compromise." What he means is that, if Enjolras manages to enjoy Grantaire's naked chest, he might find it easier to enjoy the rest of him when it’s naked, but that sounds conniving, so Grantaire doesn't want to put it like that. 

He stops Enjolras again, when Enjolras starts to unbutton his own shirt. He squeezes Enjolras's wrists, then kisses first one palm then the other. "It will be more fun, if we undress each other," he says, fingers lifting toward Enjolras's top button.

He brushes the soft skin between Enjolras's collarbones, on his way down, carefully pushing one button through its hole then the next. Enjolras is the only person Grantaire knows who wears a button up shirt through choice, rather than just to weddings and funerals. Right now, he's got to admit that he appreciates the aesthetic. Enjolras looks very, very good with his shirt unbuttoned to the base of his ribs, soft, white fabric slipping off his shoulders.

"I could eat you," Grantaire says, without thinking.

"Okay," Enjolras replies then blushes.

Grantaire can't help it, he moans, leaning forward to press a kiss to Enjolras's sternum.

"Shh," Enjolras says, but it comes out breathless. "’Ferre and his parents are home. They'll hear."

"You didn't seem to mind that when you were kissing me in the hall," Grantaire says, kissing a little lower on Enjolras's chest. "Or their kitchen. Or the stairs. Or..." He punctuates each place with another kiss and Enjolras ends up shaky and gasping under his mouth.

It's an incredibly heady feeling. If Grantaire gets to keep this, he might never need a drink again.

"I'd rather they didn't walk in on us doing this, though," Enjolras says. He puts his hands over Grantaire's, guiding them down to the last of the buttons above his waistband. 

"What are we doing, exactly?" Grantaire asks. He needs to pull Enjolras's shirt free, but that might be a bit step. It'll be warm from his body, and that feels too intimate.

"Anything," Enjolras says and untucks his own shirt. Grantaire deals with the buttons automatically, and then Enjolras is right there: bare chest, bare stomach. Grantaire can see his belly button; Grantaire hasn't seen his belly button since they used to change for PE class in the same corner, and it definitely wasn't this attractive back then.

"Would it be weird if I put my tongue in your belly button?" Grantaire asks, then falls to his knees before Enjolras can answer.

Enjolras sucks in a deep, startled breath, but Grantaire isn't actually planning to blow him. At least, not yet. He presses open-mouthed kisses to Enjolras's stomach, leaving wet imprints of his lips on Enjolras’s pearly-white skin. 

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes shakily, so Grantaire does it again, licking his lips then dragging them across soft skin to Enjolras’s hip. The skin there is softer still, almost translucent, and Grantaire feels as though he’s kissing living marble. He sucks softly, not quite a love bite, just a pale pink bruise.

“Shit,” Enjolras says. He grabs Grantaire’s hands and pulls. “Stand up, please, come here. I don’t want to - ”

“Don’t want to what?” Grantaire asks, standing, letting himself press against Enjolras the whole way up. He takes in the way Enjolras’s chest is heaving and grins. “Were you having a stamina issue?”

“Fuck you,” Enjolras says. Grantaire is a grown-up, sort of, so he doesn’t make any bad jokes about that. “And take your t-shirt off.”

Grantaire does, pulling it over his head and really hopes Enjolras likes patchy chest hair, a four-pack that’s seen better days, and some tattoos that only Grantaire understands.

Apparently Enjolras actually does, because he blasphemes beautifully then crushes Grantaire against him for a kiss that’s somehow more desperate than all the others. They trip towards the bed, landing with Enjolras on top and their limbs all tangled up together.

“That was graceful,” Enjolras says. He smiles and it’s beautiful, but Grantaire isn’t really in a position to appreciate it, because Enjolras is _on top of him_ , and he’s heavy, and solid and fuck, this is really happening.

  
  


Grantaire slides his hand between them until it’s pressed against Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras lifts up just far enough that Grantaire can see what he’s doing, watch himself spread his fingers against Enjolras’s perfectly smooth skin.

“Do you wax?” he asks, before he brain can catch up with his mouth.

“Certainly not.” Enjolras actually looks offended. “Body hair is natural and it’s only society that encourages us to - ”

Grantaire puts his fingers over Enjolras’s mouth. “I know,” he says. “You said the same thing in gym, when Ms Leguic told that girl she should shave under her arms.”

“She said it was for hygiene,” Enjolras says, voice rising. “I’ve never heard such…”

Grantaire kisses him. “Social justice tomorrow,” he says. “Stick it to the man by sticking it to me, right now, okay?”

Enjolras takes ten more seconds to be terribly, terribly offended and then dissolves into laughter. “That was terrible,” he says, eyes bright. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“Neither can I,” Grantaire says faintly. Rather, he can’t believe he made Enjolras laugh like that or look like that. 

They slide back into kissing, no awkward hesitation this time, just a blink and then their mouths are back together as though they were never supposed to be apart.

It could be six days later for all Grantaire knows the next time he comes back to an awareness of anything but the inside of Enjolras’s mouth. Enjolras is fumbling with the front of Grantaire’s jeans, which is enough to drag him back to reality with a bump.

“You don’t need to do that,” he says, even as his hips rock forward and try to make him a liar.

Enjolras looks up. He’s biting his bottom lip, but Grantaire is fairly certain he’s the one who’s responsible for the deep pink smudges all around Enjolras’s mouth. “I’d like to see your penis,” he says, in that heartbreakingly ridiculous way of his. “Please.”

Grantaire opens his jeans in a rush, pushing them and his boxers down his thighs until his cock springs free. Then he feels ridiculous; that wasn’t suave and it certainly wasn’t gradually easing Enjolras in to the sight of someone else’s dick.

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, who doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of freaking out. He slides his fingers into the space between Grantaire’s dick and his stomach, then makes a fist, wrapping it around Grantaire.

Grantaire’s entire nervous system explodes in a short, sharp firework of disbelief, and then he’s fumbling desperately with Enjolras’s zip, murmuring, “Can I? Please say I can?” as he goes.

“Of course you can,” Enjolras says, breathlessly, which is lucky, because next second, Grantaire has Enjolras’s dick in his hand and it’s perfect.

The situation, that is.

Although his dick is pretty nice, too.

“I’m so happy with this afterlife; my compliments to St Peter,” Grantaire says, pulling Enjolras down so they can kiss again and Grantaire can line his fist up with Enjolras’s, their dicks side by side now except for their hands in the way.

“Together?” Enjolras asks, uncurling his hand from Grantaire and linking their fingers. Their cocks slide against each other, slick with pre-come, and wrapped perfectly in their joined hands.

Grantaire tips his head back. “Yes,” he says, “yes, that’s… fuck, does that feel good to you, too?”

Enjolras’s head is hanging down over Grantaire’s, hair brushing Grantaire’s forehead, his ears. He’s taking short, soft breaths that sound somehow painful, and he seems to be beyond words.

Grantaire, unfortunately, isn’t. “Do you know how beautiful you are? You’re so beautiful. You always have been. I can’t… I. You have to tell me if I’m saying too much. You have to stop me.”

Enjolras fits his mouth over Grantaire’s. Grantaire strokes his thumb over Enjolras’s, over the head of Enjolras’s dick, squeezes their whole mess of fingers and slick and dicks together, until Enjolras sobs into Grantaire’s mouth and comes over his hand.

Grantaire lasts maybe seven seconds longer and that’s only because he’s shocked stupid by the realisation that he made Enjolras come. That Enjolras is breathing his orgasm into Grantaire’s mouth and their fingers are wet with it.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers, and that is absolutely all Grantaire needs. He shakes through his own orgasm, warmth spreading everywhere until he’s numb and tingly all at once.

He slumps back into the bed and Enjolras folds down on top of him. Neither of them move. Neither of them speak. Then Enjolras shifts around until most of his weight is on the bed and wraps his arms tight around Grantaire’s waist. He buries his face into Grantaire’s chest and holds on like he thinks there’s any chance of Grantaire going anywhere, after that.

Clumsily, Grantaire pats his bare back. “I meant to give you a blowjob,” he realises, feeling a stupid little tinge of disappointment.

“Next time,” Enjolras says, voice muffled.

Grantaire’s hand freezes then starts stroking again. “When’s next time?”

Enjolras shrugs, pressing closer. “Twenty minutes?” he guesses.

Grantaire laughs. He smooths his hand down over Enjolras’s very nice arse and over the backs of his thighs, shaking his head when his hand hits the top of Enjolras’s trousers. “Maybe next time, we’ll manage to get our trousers all the way off.”

“Possibly,” Enjolras agrees sleepily. “Now, shh.”

“Shh?” Grantaire asks. He tries to be annoyed but fails. “That’s not very - ” He gets cut off abruptly when Enjolras makes what looks like a supreme amount of effort and rolls over, putting his mouth over Grantaire’s and licking his way inside.

“You talk so much,” Enjolras says. He’s said it before, a lot, and it usually means _shut up_ , _stop picking fights, why do you always have to argue?_ Today it’s plaintive and a little whiney and, because Grantaire is without hope, he finds it sweet.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says and doesn’t even manage to make it sarcastic. He rolls onto his side and cautiously tucks his ankle over Enjolras’s. When Enjolras moves his leg so they’re even more tangled, Grantaire presses his chest against Enjolras’s arm.

“No,” Enjolras says. Grantaire’s heart stops, but all Enjolras does is lift his arm and look pointedly at Grantaire until he gets the idea and slides in under Enjolras’s arm.

They settle against each other, Grantaire’s head on Enjolras’s chest, and Enjolras’s arm around his shoulders.

“Is this odd?” Enjolras asks, after they’ve lain in silence for a while.

“Yes,” Grantaire says gratefully.

Enjolras’s chest relaxes under Grantaire’s cheek as though he was holding his breath. His arm tightens around Grantaire’s shoulder and Grantaire shifts, getting comfortable. He can smell Enjolras all around him, like this: sex, sweat, and the same aftershave he’s worn since they were sixteen and has always tried to pretend was just his deodorant.

“Do you have things you want to do?” Grantaire asks, watching himself run a finger down Enjolras’s sternum with a sort of detached fascination.

“With my life?” Enjolras asks. His skin shivers under Grantaire’s hand.

Grantaire snorts. “I was thinking more with me,” he says. “Or, you know, with anyone. Things in bed.”

“Oh.” Enjolras goes quiet. “I don’t know; whatever you want to do.”

“Really?” Grantaire asks, tipping his head up to look Enjolras in the eye. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

Enjolras’s fingers stroke across Grantaire’s shoulder, maddenly gentle. “I’m prepared to concede to an expert, when it’s something I’m inexperienced in.”

Grantaire feels laughter threaten to explode out of him, so he presses his face hard into Enjolras’s skin. “I’m a gay sex expert?” he asks. “Really?”

“Be quiet,” Enjolras sighs. 

The sudden burst of hilarity has helped blow away Grantaire’s post-sex lassitude and also his nerves. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” he says and pushes up on his hands, looming over Enjolras. “Let me educate you in the ways of the cock, young padawan.”

Enjolras sighs loudly. “This is was a mistake,” he predicts, but he’s not saying that ten minutes later, when Grantaire finally has his mouth on his cock.

***

When Grantaire wakes up, it’s just after six in the morning. Grantaire isn’t sure what time Combeferre’s parents get up for work, but it must be soon. So he should probably leave. He should probably, definitely leave.

“Where are you going?” Enjolras asks, curling his arm tighter around Grantaire’s waist, and pulling him back into Enjolras chest.

They’re spooning. They’re spooning and Enjolras keeps kissing the back of his neck. This isn’t Grantaire’s real life, but he’ll take it.

“It’s walk of shame time,” he says, trying but failing to shift Enjolras’s arms. “Come on, let go.”

“Are you ashamed?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but presses back into Enjolras. “No, it’s a figure of speech. But I thought you’d probably prefer it if Combeferre’s parents didn’t catch me coming out of your room in last night’s clothes.”

“I would prefer that,” Enjolras agrees, but he sounds conflicted. “Why don’t you just stay until they’ve left? I’m on a late shift at work, so we could stay right here all morning.”

“Do you still work in the bookshop?” Grantaire asks. He remembers the day Enjolras got that job, how he just walked in one day, started shelving books in the reference section that no one was bothering with, and by the end of the day, he had an afterschool job.

“During the holidays,” Enjolras says. “They let the place go to ruin when I’m not there, of course.”

“Of course,” Grantaire laughs. He rolls over, putting them face to face. “What are we going to do until they leave, then? You know me, I need constant entertainment.”

“I do know you,” Enjolras says, far too seriously, seriously enough that Grantaire’s heart twinges. “And I know you _don’t_ need constant entertainment.”

“Enjolras, I was coming onto you,” Grantaire explains, as patiently as he can. “That was your cue to offer to _keep me entertained_.”

Enjolras nods, like that makes sense, now it’s been explained to him. “I could do that,” he says. “Would you like a blowjob?”

Grantaire gulps. “Would you like to give me one?” he asks.

Enjolras licks his lips. It looks innocent, but there’s no way he doesn’t know what that look does to Grantaire’s cock. “Yes, I think so,” he says, smiling slowly. “Come here.”

***

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with himself, later, after Combeferre’s family have finally left, and Enjolras is in the shower, so he pulls on some clothes and goes downstairs.

Combeferre’s family has a nice duplex apartment - not massive, but much nicer than the place Grantaire’s parents have. (Or had; he doesn’t know where they live now, they don’t keep him informed.)

Enjolras’s room is on one side of the first floor, a couple of steps leading down to the main staircase and separating it and his bathroom from Combeferre’s bedroom. 

If Grantaire remembers right, Combeferre’s parents have the bedroom downstairs, which is a blessing, since if anyone had to hear all the sex they had, Grantaire would much rather it was Combeferre than his parents.

Combeferre’s father once taught Grantaire how to tie a bowtie, patient and gentle and fatherly; he’d rather not have that memory forever sullied with crippling embarrassment.

Combeferre himself is in the kitchen when Grantaire gets down the stairs, standing and staring at a _cafetière à piston_ clearly trying to persuade it to brew his coffee faster with the power of his mind.

Grantaire hesitates in the doorway, no idea how he should play this one.

“Do you take sugar? I can’t remember,” Combeferre says, without looking up.

“Um, no,” Grantaire says, startled, before it occurs to him that Combeferre might have thought he was Enjolras.

Combeferre doesn’t act surprised though, just pours one cup of coffee and holds it out. Grantaire sidles into the room and takes the coffee from him, not totally sure how he should be behaving, here.

Courfeyrac would have fistbumped him, but Combeferre is probably going to murder him.

“Thanks,” he says, quietly. “Good morning?”

Combeferre smiles with his eyes, but his mouth stays flat. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

Grantaire removes his cup from his lips so he can hide his face behind his palm. “How much did you hear?”

Combeferre’s cheeks go pink, but he meets Grantaire’s eyes steadily. “I heard the two of you come home, and that was quite enough for me, so I put in my iPod. Why? What exactly happened?”

“ _‘Ferre_ ,” Grantaire says, pretending to be scandalised, even though Combeferre still looks so serious, not at all in the mood to be teased. 

Combeferre shakes his head and pulls out a chair so he can sit down at the breakfast table. Once there, he scrubs his hands through his hair and looks pained. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“Hey,” Grantaire says. It hurts because he doesn’t, actually, have any idea what he’s doing. “We had a mutually enjoyable time and stayed well within the third and fourth base area. I didn’t… I wouldn’t do anything he wasn’t comfortable with.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Combeferre says. “I’m not worried about you sullying my chattel. Enjolras is a big boy and if he wants to sleep with you, I’m happy for him. But I’m also worried. There’s so much potential for feelings to get hurt, here.”

“Really not,” Grantaire says. He leans against the back of Combeferre’s chair and tries to drink his coffee in a nonchalant way. He’s not sure he pulls it off. “He doesn’t have feelings; you know that.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Of course he does; _you_ know that. And it wasn’t just _his_ feelings I was worried about.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire says flatly. He puts his cup down on the breakfast bar and straightens up. “I’m going to go, I should go, I guess.”

Combeferre grips his wrist hard. “Don’t even think about it. You’re going to stay and eat breakfast with him, if I have to tie you to a chair myself.”

Grantaire has no objection to that; he’d really like to have breakfast with Enjolras. He just doesn’t know how to interact with him now, especially not with an audience. 

He definitely means to say something like that to Combeferre, but instead he ends up asking, “What if he doesn’t want me to?”

Combeferre’s glare softens. “He does,” he says. “Just… believe me on that, okay?”

“Okay,” Grantaire says and his stubborn heart starts filling with hope, again.

***

Grantaire gets back to Fantine’s to find her standing in the hall with a small, red and white polka dot suitcase at her feet.

“Are you kicking me out?” he asks. He’s mostly teasing; he doesn’t _think_ forgetting to come home one time is that serious an offence.

She looks at his rumpled clothes and quite noticeably bites down on a smile. “I’ve been invited to spend the night at Cosette’s father’s cottage. You don’t mind, do you?”

“What? No,” Grantaire says. He waggles his eyebrows. “Are you and Cosette’s father a thing? That would be weird.”

She laughs. “No,” she says and she’s giggling so much that he believes her. “When I said Cosette’s father, I really mean her _fathers_.”

“Plural?” Grantaire asks, imaging her adoptive father and her birth father and Fantine in some bizarre menage-a-trois. If that’s the case, Cosette will probably need a lot of therapy. 

She laughs. “Oh god, not that father. No, the man who adopted her is married to a policeman and for some reason, they seem to enjoy my company.”

“Hey,” Grantaire says. “Of course they do! You’re awesome.”

She reaches out and tugs on one of his curls. He’d never let anyone else do that. “You’re biased.” 

Damn right he is. 

“So Cosette’s dads are gay?” Grantaire asks. He doesn’t know any older gay people; he’s curious. “What are they like?”

“They both dote on Cosette,” Fantine says with a smile. “Her father is a little serious, and his partner… well, I want to say he’s charming, but he’s not. He’s funny though.”

“You like them?” Grantaire asks.

“Very much.” Fantine’s phone beeps again. “Now, I have to go. You’ll be okay?”

Grantaire nods then shrugs. “Of course,” he says. “What could I possibly get up to?”

She pretends to be horrified, clapping her hand to her forehead. “Don’t ever say that,” she says then presses a kiss to his cheek. 

She picks up the handle of her suitcase and wheels it to the door. Hand on the front door, she turns and adds, “I know Enjolras is a Greek god deigning to pass the time with mortals or whatever it was you said the last time you got into the cooking sherry, but do not have sex with him in my bed.”

Grantaire gulps in air then chokes on it. “I wouldn’t… How did you know?”

“I know everything,” she says and lets herself out.

Grantaire runs to the mirror at the end of the hall and spends a good few minutes checking his jawline and throat for lovebites, but there aren’t any. His hair is messy, but his hair is always messy, and the beard burn he can feel on his lips isn’t visible yet.

There’s no way she could have known he had sex with anyone last night, let alone who it was. Grantaire is convinced she has magical fairy powers.

Since Fantine mentioned Enjolras and therefore he’s already been invoked, Grantaire pulls out his phone and decides to send the most casual text of his life.

_I have a free house_ , he sends then wonders if he should have added a _hi_ or a _thanks for last night_ or something, but he’s always felt creepy thanking people for sex.

When Grantaire left Combeferre’s, Enjolras was on the brink of sinking into his political blogosphere, so Grantaire isn’t expecting an immediate response. He gets one within two minutes:

_Are you lonely?_

This is Enjolras trying to flirt, Grantaire thinks wildly. Since he’s in the house all alone, he lets hysterical giggles bubble up in his throat until he’s just leaning against the wall, muttering, “this can’t actually be happening,” over and over to himself.

Then, because he might be crazy but he’s not _crazy_ , Grantaire writes back: _Terribly. Only you can save me…_

He’s only put one foot on the stairs, when Enjolras replies: _Working this afternoon, will see you tonight. X_

Grantaire stares at the little X for so long that his screen goes dark then longer still until the phone locks itself. “Oh my fuck,” he whispers to himself. 

He’s not hoping, he’s not, but it’s difficult not to bounce up the stairs, to start humming to himself as he undresses prior to climbing in the shower. He’s full-on singing by the time he’s rinsing shampoo out of his hair, attempting to harmonise with himself so enthusiastically that he almost doesn’t hear his phone ringing.

He grabs for it, ignoring the fact his hands are wet and he might electrocute himself. It could be Enjolras, even though Enjolras said he was working, and when he first glances at the screen, he thinks it is. 

Their names have enough of the same combinations of letters that it’s easy to mistake at first glance, but as soon as he answers it, Grantaire knows it’s Éponine not Enjolras.

She’s crying, which he’s never heard her do before, big, gulping sobs that crush Grantaire’s happiness and make him ache, instead.

“Can you come back?” she asks through her tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but can you come?”

“Of course,” Grantaire promises and doesn’t think about any of the reasons that he doesn’t want to.

***

The journey back to Nice feels endless even though the TGV is as breathlessly fast as always. Grantaire keeps trying to call Éponine, but she won’t pick up. He doesn’t know if Gavroche has a phone, although he’d bet he does, even if he had to steal it for himself. When Grantaire finds them, he’s getting hold of that number, too.

He texts Fantine to let her know he’s left, that he doesn’t know if he’s coming back, but he’s still holding his phone, wondering what the hell to tell Enjolras, when it rings.

“I’m here, where are you?” Enjolras asks, and it’s so easy and casual, so happy, that Grantaire can’t make a sound. “Grantaire?”

“I… I’m.” Come on, Grantaire, it’s like pulling off a plaster, do it fast and all at once. “I’m on the train back to Nice.”

Enjolras laughs the sort of laugh that means he’s not sure if he should be laughing. “That’s not funny,” he says.

Grantaire leans his head against the window. They left Avignon behind a while ago; he’s closer to Nice than he is to Paris. “I know.”

There’s silence on the line. “I don’t understand,” Enjolras says. “I thought you were staying? I left work early because you said you wanted to see me.”

Fuck. Fuck, he sounds hurt and under the hurt, he sounds angry. Grantaire wants to go back to this morning, to their awkward breakfast with Combeferre, nudging each other’s bare feet under the table and exchanging embarrassed smiles.

Actually, screw that, he just wants Enjolras. He’s terrified about whatever he’s going to find at Éponine’s and he wants a hug.

“I have a thing I need to do,” Grantaire says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I really… I wanted...” _What did I want?_ he thinks suddenly, savagely, he wanted the ridiculous, overblown romance that he never got when they were at school.

“I suppose you were always going to go,” Enjolras says after a long pause. Now he just sounds angry. “It’s what you do.”

Grantaire breathes out so hard at the unexpected hit that his breath fogs up the windowpane.

_No, it isn’t, I was going to find a way to stay,_ Grantaire thinks, but he hadn’t even realised that himself until this second, so he can’t blame Enjolras for not knowing.

He settles on saying, “I’m sorry,” again. His voice sounds all fucked up. The guy sitting across the aisle from him is shooting him worried looks, like he thinks Grantaire’s going to start bawling and he’ll be left to deal with it.

Enjolras’s voice is clipped. “It’s fine.”

Of course it is. Enjolras just wanted someone he knew to lose his gay virginity with and he got that; of course he’s not as heartbroken over this as Grantaire is and Grantaire’s the one putting a stop to things.

Fuck. Grantaire is putting a stop to things. The world is inside out and he hates it. Maybe it’s immature, but he pulls the phone away from his ear before he can hear Enjolras say anything else, and ends the call with a shaking finger.

He doesn’t turn his phone off, because he needs to be able to hear from Éponine, if she needs him, but he puts it on silent and drops it down hard on the little plastic table in front of him.

It lands with a crash and bounces, but it doesn’t crack. The screen lights up almost immediately with another call from Enjolras, but he ignores it. There's a third and a fourth, but after that, nothing but silence.

***

Gare de Nice-Ville is packed when Grantaire’s train pulls in, and he panics for a second that he won’t be able to find Éponine. Then he spots her, crouched against a far wall on the concourse, one of the twins in her lap and Gavroche standing guard over them both, a fierce look on his face.

The fierceness fades when he sees Grantaire, and as soon as Grantaire's close enough, Gavroche clutches his wrist with the sort of desperateness he’s never let Grantaire see before. 

Éponine gets up stiffly, but she’s dry eyed, now, and her mouth is set and determined. The twin she’s carrying is dead-to-the-world when she hefts him up into her arms, his face tear-stained and blotchy against her cheek. Grantaire can’t see the other one and it tightens the knot of dread in his belly. 

“What’s happened?” he asks.

Éponine waits until he’s right in front of her then, “They sold Simon,” she says flatly.

“ _Sold_?” Grantaire demands, caught off guard. “What? Who the fuck to?”

“I don’t know,” Éponine says. “I don’t know where he is, or if he’s safe; they won’t tell me anything. I need you to take the kids so I can track him down.”

Gavroche’s hand flexes around Grantaire’s wrist, but for once he doesn’t pipe up with an opinion. Grantaire thinks he knows his opinion anyway, and he shares it. “Don’t be stupid; I can help you. Have you called the police?”

“And say what?” Éponine laughs. “They won’t care. They never cared about anything else my parents did to us, why would they care about this?”

“Because it’s not the Middle Ages and you can’t just go around _selling children_.” Grantaire doesn’t mean to snap and he’s fairly certain she doesn’t mean to flinch, but both things happen and they’re left staring at each other.

Grantaire’s shoulders sag. “Of course I’ll help,” he says. “I’ll do whatever you need, but I do think I’d be better as more than a glorified babysitter.” Something occurs to him. “Where’s Azelma?”

“Lille,” Gavroche says, when Éponine doesn’t. “Dad sent her picture around to a whole bunch of modelling agencies, and this one in Lille said yes.”

“What?” Grantaire is always baffled by the Thénardiers, but now it’s worse. He tries to imagine tiny, shy Azelma ever wanting that and fails.

Éponine sniffs. “They tried it on me and I told them to fuck off. She hasn’t learnt to say fuck to them, yet.”

“But,” Grantaire starts. 

Éponine holds up a hand and cuts him off. “Let’s go,” she says, “I don’t want Simon spending another night with… with whoever took him.”

“Let me take Victor,” Grantaire says, holding out the arm Gavroche isn't clutching. Gavroche lets go immediately, like he thinks his baby brother should take precedence over him.

It’s a sign of how tired Éponine is that she lets Grantaire take the baby without comment. She usually won’t even let Grantaire carry her coffee cup when they’re in Starbucks. 

Victor mumbles something sleepy against Grantaire’s shoulder and Grantaire finds himself clutching him hard. He doesn’t love the twins the way he adores Éponine and Gavroche, but the idea that someone took one of them, might be hurting him, makes him feel sick.

***

They put Victor to bed as soon as they get back to the Thénardiers’s house, then Grantaire busies himself trying to make dinner, while Éponine and Gavroche have some kind of whispered argument in the living room.

His phone has been buzzing steadily all evening, but he’s been ignoring it just as steadily, until there’s pasta in the oven and he doesn’t have an excuse any longer.

Surprisingly, it’s Combeferre’s who’s ringing this time. Grantaire feels wary as he answers it, in case he’s going to get yelled at. Getting yelled at by Combeferre would be so much worse than by Enjolras, since Combeferre never raises his voice.

“Are you all right?” is what Combeferre actually says. It makes Grantaire feel like a bad person for automatically assuming the worst.

“Sort of,” Grantaire says, since no one really lies to Combeferre.

Combeferre hums. “I know you sometimes find things difficult to process,” Combeferre says slowly, like he’s thinking through the best way to phrase, _hey, remember all those panic attacks I talked though through at school?_ “But did you need to go so far as fleeing the region?”

“Oh no, wait, I didn’t run away from Enjolras,” Grantaire says. Is that what Enjolras is thinking? Fucking, fuck.

“No?” Combeferre asks. “No one would blame you, if you did, but - ”

Grantaire groans and rubs the bridge of his nose. Travelling always gives him a headache and this isn’t helping. “My friend needed my help,” he says. “‘Ferre, seriously, do you think I wouldn’t rather be in Paris, kissing Enjolras?”

Combeferre doesn’t hesitate. “Is your friend okay? Do you need help?”

Grantaire desperately wants to say yes. “No,” he says. “We’ll be okay. But could you please, please make sure that Enjolras doesn’t think I ditched him.”

“It might be better if you did that,” Combeferre says.

“Please,” Grantaire says again. “Just make sure he knows how I feel about him and that I’m going to try to come back.” He breaks off, laughing at himself. “Well, not _exactly_ how I feel about it. Just a suitable amount of devotion.”

“I don’t know why you two can’t just speak to each other,” Combeferre sighs, but it’s a yes, it’s obviously a yes.

“Thank you, I love you,” Grantaire says, “I’ll see you soon, hopefully.”

“You’d better,” Combeferre says. Grantaire thinks that’s going to be it, but then he adds, “R? Do come back. When we talked about someone getting hurt, I was largely thinking of you. Now I’m starting to worry I was wrong.”

Grantaire doesn’t know how to answer that, so like a coward he says, “Okay, I will, promise,” and hangs up the phone.

The oven has a big, chrome handle that sticks out from the door. It makes an excellent support for Grantaire to cling to while he curls forward at the waist and tries to remember how to breathe.

Fuck. 

Combeferre’s right, Grantaire does run away when things get too difficult to cope with, and the Enjolras thing _had_ been difficult. But he hadn’t wanted to run away, for once he really hadn’t.

“What happened?” Éponine says from the doorway, once he’s mostly okay again. 

Grantaire straightens up slowly and rubs a shaky hand over his face. “Long day,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Éponine has her arms wrapped around herself, but there’s a spark of brightness in her eyes. “If this is too much for you,” she starts.

Grantaire cuts her off. “It’s not. I promise I’m fine.” His anxiety is always better when he’s helping other people. His brain is stupid and rescuing kidnapped kids is much less likely to give him a panic attack than the thought of potentially having hurt Enjolras’s feelings.

Éponine steps closer, sniffing the air. “What did you cook? It’s burning.”

“It is not,” Grantaire says, but he opens the oven, anyway. The smell of slightly crispy cheese hits him, but Éponine doesn’t tease him. She also doesn’t ask him again if he’s all right, so that’s a blessing.

***

After dinner, when Gavroche is snoring on the sofa and Grantaire is thinking about what an excellent idea that is, there’s a knock on the door.

Grantaire tenses but Éponine doesn’t seem surprised, just gets up and hurries to open it. 

The man she lets in looks as though he stepped off a catwalk. He’s ridiculously overdressed in a suit that probably costs more than Grantaire has ever spent on clothes and his shoes actually sparkle.

He’s very pretty, but for some reason, Grantaire doesn’t like him. Well, not for some reason, the reason is the creepy way he’s looking Éponine up and down.

“This is Montparnasse,” she tells Grantaire. “He works with my father.” She turns quickly back to Montparnasse. “Did you find him?”

Montparnasse smooths back dark hair that’s slick with gel and smiles at her slowly. “I found him,” he says in a weirdly light, high-pitched voice. 

The tension goes out of Éponine’s shoulders and Grantaire’s chest. “Where is he?” she asks. “Can we go there, tonight?”

Montparnasse glances at Grantaire then obviously dismisses him. “Ah, ‘Ponine, that’s not information that comes cheap. What do I get in return?”

Éponine stares at him blankly for a moment then bristles. “The satisfaction of knowing a little boy is safe, maybe?”

He laughs. “No, not that.”

Grantaire starts to stand, but Éponine shoots him a look that makes him sit again. “What do you want?” she asks.

Montparnasse touches her arm softly. “You know what I want.”

Grantaire stares in horror as Éponine’s jaw sets, her chin comes up. Whatever he’s implying, Éponine’s going to give it to him, Grantaire realises, if it means saving Simon.

Now Grantaire does have to stand and no amount of glaring from anyone is going to keep him down. “Not going to happen,” he says. He takes a step closer to them then another one. “Just tell her where Simon is.”

Montparnasse’s eyelid twitches like a tick. “I really don’t see why I should,” he says. His voice is silky, but Grantaire’s close enough now that he can see the knife tucked into his belt.

From the sofa, Gavroche makes a startled noise. “What’s going on?” he asks, yawning. He stumbles up, coming to standing in front of Éponine.

She puts her hands on Gavroche’s shoulders and looks like she doesn’t know what to do. Éponine always knows what to do, so it’s deeply unsettling. 

Grantaire gets an idea. “Look,” he says, “tell us where Simon is or tell the police. It’s up to you.”

Montparnasse scoffs. “Like you’ve involved the police,” he says. He waves his hand at Éponine. “This one wouldn’t last five minutes, if her parents went down.”

“I think she probably would,” Grantaire says and pulls out his phone.

Montparnasse’s hand flies to his knife, but he doesn’t pull it out. Grantaire is very pleased about that, since he’s not sure how brave he could be against an actual knife in his actual face.

“Grantaire?” Fantine asks when she picks up the phone.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, hoping his voice stays level. “Is your policeman friend with you?”

“What’s happened?” Fantine asks. He hears her raise her voice to call, “Javert?”

Everyone in the room is watching him closely; Grantaire hopes he doesn’t fuck this up. “Can you ask him what would happen to someone who let a child get hurt when he could do something about it?”

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Fantine says, sounding truly panicked now, but Montparnasse has turned pale and that’s what Grantaire is focusing on.

“All right, hang up the fucking phone,” he says, “I’ll tell you.”

“Thanks, Fantine, I love you,” Grantaire says and hangs up the phone.

Montparnasse spills his intel quickly after that. He has an address for the place Éponine’s dad took Simon and is suddenly more than willing to drive them there in his car.

“We can’t leave Gav,” Grantaire says, not wanting to get in Montparnasse’s car, if he can help it.

“Screw that,” Gavroche says firmly. “I’m coming with you.”

Éponine puts her hands on her hips. “You are not, you’re staying here and looking after Victor.”

Gavroche opens his mouth, then closes it and pouts. There’s clearly no way he can think of to get out of that one. 

Éponine disappears upstairs for a minute while Montparnasse is starting up the car and comes back down with the back of her shirt rucked up and a more careful way of walking.

“Do I get a knife, too?” Grantaire asks, smoothing her top down at the back to better hide the hilt.

“Not in a million years,” she tells him. She tries to smile, but it falls flat. “You don’t have to come. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes at her. “I laugh in the face of danger,” he says, even though he really, demonstratively, does not.

“Don’t do that,” she advises. “Danger won’t like it.”

He grabs her hand before she can leave. “‘Ponine, if - ”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “Whatever we find, we’ll deal with it, but we’re not, _I’m_ not thinking about worst case scenarios before I have to.”

Grantaire nods. He knew this was her world, but he hadn’t really processed it until today. He doesn’t know how she can be as bright and human and alive as she is, living in the shadow her parents cast over her.

They’re silent in the car with Montparnasse. He keeps up a running chatter that’s presumably supposed to be charming, but just makes him sound nervous.

They pull up outside a nice, slightly old fashioned house in the suburbs, with trailing red roses in the front garden. Grantaire doesn’t know a lot about child traffickers, but it doesn’t look like the sort of place they’d hang out.

“Are you sure this is right?” Éponine asks, leaning forward between the seats to speak directly into Montparnasse’s ear. 

“One hundred percent,” he says. He reaches for his door handle, but Éponine stops him.

“Grantaire and I will go,” she says. “You stay right here.”

They get out of the car and Grantaire lets Éponine take the lead, following her quietly through the front garden and up to the side of the house.

There’s a window set into the side wall, the curtains still open, and Grantaire risks a quick look through it. It’s a kitchen, rows of herbs and fresh vegetables on the counter, something nice-looking bubbling on the stove.

“This is a very nice kidnapper’s house,” Grantaire whispers.

“So was the one in Hansel and Gretel,” she reminds him. “Come on.” They sneak around the house, slipping through a gate, which magically opens under Éponine’s quick fingers, and find that there’s a light on in one of the back rooms.

There’s a woman sitting in what is clearly her living room, the TV on low and her slippered feet up on a coffee table. She’s knitting what looks like a child’s sweatshirt, a bright splash of colour making up the pattern in the centre.

“Something’s weird, here,” Éponine says. “If ‘Parnasse gave us the wrong address, I will kill him.”

They keep watching, anyway, as though they’re suddenly expecting the woman to throw down her knitting and morph into a cackling witch.

That doesn’t happen.

What does happen, though, is that she looks up and smiles at the doorway and, a second later, little Simon comes wandering in, a teddy bear clutched in his hands.

Éponine makes a tiny sound that she instantly cuts off, eyes fixed on her brother as he rubs his eyes and says something they can’t hear.

The woman stands up immediately, laying her knitting down on the table and kneeling down in front of Simon. She holds her arms out to him and, after a moment of hesitation, he lets her give him a hug. She strokes her hand over his hair and Grantaire can only see the side of her profile, but her expression looks wonder-filled.

“I’m going in,” Éponine says, standing up.

Grantaire tries to grab her, but fails, and can only hurry after her as she marches around to the front door and bangs on it.

It takes a long time for anyone to answer and, when she does, the woman is alone, a phone clutched in her hand, like she’s three seconds from dialling the police.

“Yes,” she answers, only opening the door a crack.

Éponine stands up straight. “My name is Éponine Thénardier,” she says, “Simon is my brother, and I’m here to take him home.”

The woman looks briefly crushed then angry. “You most certainly are not,” she says. “Go away, how dare you come here at this time of night.”

“How dare _I_?” Éponine demands. “You stole my brother.”

Grantaire puts his hands on her shoulders and squeezes, hoping that’s calming not antagonising. “Please can we come in?” he asks. “I promise we won’t just snatch Simon and run.”

“You do?” Éponine asks, rounding on him.

The woman is just watching them, so Grantaire holds out his hand. “My name is Grantaire, Madame…”

“Magnon,” she says, cautiously taking his hand and shaking it as quickly as she can, before dropping it as though it might be poisoned. “You still can’t come in.”

“I have to, I’m sorry,” Éponine says and then she’s pulling out of Grantaire’s grip and pushing past Madame Magnon, yelling for Simon.

Simon comes running out of the back room and throws himself into Éponine arms, babbling happily at her, too fast and too quiet for Grantaire to catch. Éponine clutches him to her chest and presses kisses all over his face. Grantaire thinks she might be crying, so he deliberately looks away.

Madame Magnon is frozen, staring at them. Grantaire knows he shouldn’t, but he feels a little sorry for her.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Éponine is saying, “We’re leaving now.”

Simon jerks away from her with a loud, “No!” which leaves Éponine looking shocked to her core.

“Sweetheart,” Éponine says, but Simon shakes his head hard. “No,” he says again. “I live here now.” He looks at Madame Magnon. “You said I lived here now!”

“I want you to,” she says faintly. She takes a deep breath and looks at Grantaire. “Let’s sit down.”

They sit at chairs around the kitchen table, Simon held firmly on Éponine’s lap, while Madame Magnon mechanically makes tea and then sets in on the table between them.

“I didn’t know he had a family who loved him,” is the first thing she says. “The man who sold him to me… Your father?” Éponine nods. “He said Simon’s mother had died and there was no other family.” She twists her hands together. “I knew it was suspicious but I just… I wanted a child so much.”

“So you bought one from a stranger in the street?” Grantaire asks, incredulously.

She bites her lip. “It wasn’t quite that simple.”

“He has a family,” Éponine says quietly. “Me and his sister and two brothers. He has a twin brother, who’s been crying for him solidly.”

“Victor?” Madame Magnon asks. “Simon kept asking for him; I didn’t know who he was. I tried to call your father to find out, but the number he gave me doesn’t work.”

Éponine laughs harshly. “That doesn’t surprise me at all,” she says. She strokes her hands compulsively over Simon’s soft, dark hair. He looks as though he’s dropping off to sleep. “I can’t pay you back the money all at once, but I will pay it. I swear.”

Madame Magnon just looks at her. “But I don’t want the money,” she says. “I want Simon.” She holds up a hand before Éponine can argue. “I understand that I’m in the wrong, but I can give him a good life.”

“How dare you,” Éponine demands. “Just because you’re rich, you think you could be a better mother to him than I could?”

“How old are you?” Madame Magnon asks. “Twenty?” Éponine’s nineteen, but she doesn’t tell Madame Magnon that and Grantaire doesn’t either. “Do you really want to take on this much responsibility?”

“Of course I don’t _want_ to,” Éponine snaps. "But I have to. They’re my family; it’s the right thing to do.”

“I could take Simon and his twin,” Madame Magnon says. “I would, of course, pay you for Victor as well and I would never stop you from visiting them. They'd be safe with me. They'd be loved and protected and I'd never let your father near them.”

Éponine is turning pale and Grantaire watches her helplessly. She clearly doesn’t know what to do and just as clearly isn’t going to tell Madame Magnon that.

“We’re leaving,” she says, standing up and keeping hold of Simon. “All three of us.”

Madame Magnon’s hands are shaking when she lifts them toward Simon before dropping them. “Please don’t take him away,” she says.

Forget everyone else, Grantaire thinks _he’s_ going to cry, if they stay here much longer.

“I’m sorry,” Éponine says, sounding like she really means it, then carries Simon out the door.

Tears spill out of Madame Magnon’s eyes. “I’m sorry too,” Grantaire says quickly. He really is. “Please don’t cry.”

She turns away from him and Éponine starts yelling for him, so there’s nothing he can do but leave. 

No one talks on the journey home, not even Montparnasse.

***

Grantaire isn’t sure if Éponine sleeps that night. He passes out on the sofa around two a.m. and stumbles up mid-morning to find her sitting on the floor in the twins' bedroom, staring at them.

They’ve both crawled into the same bed, little arms and legs all tangled up together, still fast asleep.

“I don’t know what to do,” Éponine says, without looking away from them.

“You don’t have to give up your family,” Grantaire says, handing her a cup of coffee and sipping from his own. “Just because Madame Magnon is richer than you, it doesn’t mean she’s better.”

Éponine smiles. “Look at you, you communist,” she says, which is funnier than she knows, since she doesn’t know Enjolras. “And I know that, but did you see them together? She loves him; he was happy with her. I want that for them both.”

“What about you and Gav and Azelma?” Grantaire asks.

“I’m not giving her Gav,” Éponine says immediately. Then, quieter, “I asked him if he’d want me to and he yelled at me for being stupid.”

“Of course he did,” Grantaire scoffs. “That kid’s never leaving you.”

Éponine smiles, but it’s wan and lost.

“Do you want breakfast?” Grantaire asks her. “I’m still on kitchen duty.”

“You still can’t cook,” Éponine says, but stands up, pressing one hand to the twins’ bed before she leaves the bedroom with him.

They eat breakfast, and Grantaire once again has to ignore his phone, which is buzzing with calls. It’s been ringing since he spoke to Fantine last night, but he doesn’t have it in him to tell her what Éponine is contemplating. 

“Do you need to get that?” Éponine asks.

“No, it’s just Fantine,” Grantaire says, even though he hasn’t checked the called ID. “She’s worried, but I don’t know what to tell her.”

Éponine makes a sad, groaning sound and falls back in her chair. “I don’t know what to do,” she says again. “I hate my parents so much.”

Grantaire pours her another cup of coffee, since he can’t really help her. Or he shouldn’t really help her; it’s too big a decision to think he should get a say in it.

After a while, Éponine takes the coffee pot and locks herself away in her room. Grantaire busies himself getting the twins up and dressed, then spends the rest of the morning being beaten at computer games by Gavroche.

(“I think they’d be better off with the rich lady,” Gavroche says, during a pause in zombie hunting.

Grantaire can’t make himself disagree.)

***

It’s long past lunch time when Éponine marches down the stairs, two suitcases in her hands.

“We’re doing this,” she says to Grantaire and throws him the house phone to call a cab.

“It’s an adventure,” she tells the twins, then lets Simon tell Victor all about Madame Magnon and her apparently unlimited supply of sweets. ( _A cottage in the woods made out of cakes and sweets_ , Grantaire thinks, then hates himself.)

Madame Magnon meets them at the door. She scoops Simon up for a hug then introduces herself to Victor - she can tell them apart, which Grantaire thinks must be a good sign, since he still can’t.

“I’ll see you in the car,” Grantaire says, touching Éponine’s back, then Gavroche’s. This isn’t his family; he should give them some space.

***

Gavroche cries the whole way home, silent tears he tries to hide, and locks himself in his room as soon as they get home. Éponine does the same, taking a bottle of something with her.

Grantaire spends five minutes standing alone in the living room then stumbles outside and sinks down onto the stoop, feeling shaky and breathless.

He folds down over his knees and tries to breathe and not think about anything at all.

His phone vibrates softly and he pulls it out, waiting for it to stop ringing, before he checks his lock screen. It tells him he has more missed calls than it can list and his call log is a mess: Fantine, Fantine again, Cosette and Marius, then Fantine again. All of those are predictable. 

Enjolras has been calling since six a.m. and at midday, Combeferre started too, then Courfeyrac. The latest call is from Musichetta, which is just ridiculous.

Grantaire holds his finger over Fantine’s name, ready to call her back, then stops when a car pulls up in front of the house. If it’s Montparnasse, Grantaire’s going to kill him, even if he can’t totally stand up, right now.

It’s not Montparnasse, it’s a cab, and out of it spills the very last person Grantaire expects to see.

Enjolras looks more dishevelled than Grantaire has ever seen him, his hair is flat on one side like he slept sitting up, and he’s wearing the same shirt he wore to breakfast yesterday.

He pays the cab driver then turns and his eyes lock on Grantaire. An expression of relief washes across his face and then he’s hurrying over, hands out like they want to get to Grantaire even more than the rest of him does.

“Thank god you’re here,” he calls, closing the gap between them as fast as he can. “Fantine has been worried sick. _I_ ’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says. He feels his last shreds of dignity snap. “Enjolras.”

Enjolras sits down hard next to him and Grantaire sucks in a harsh breath that judders in the middle.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says again. Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just opens his arms, and Grantaire sinks into them, gratefully.

Enjolras holds him tightly, patting his back, and periodically reminding him to breathe, while Grantaire’s body does some shaky, half panic attack _thing_ , that leaves him wretchedly exhausted and slumped against Enjolras’s side.

“Well, I didn’t think you’d be _that_ displeased to see me,” Enjolras says weakly, when Grantaire’s calmer. “What happened?”

Grantaire’s first instinct is not to tell him, but he’s probably already fucked everything up between them, so even if Enjolras is horrified, Grantaire won’t be losing anything new. 

“Sold a couple of kids, nothing big,” he says, then explains properly before Enjolras can call the police on him.

Enjolras is holding his hands and making furious noises by the time he’s done, which is confusing mixture of messages. “Éponine’s parents should be horsewhipped,” he says, with the same sort of feeling that he usually uses to decry the government.

Grantaire laughs shakily. “I don’t understand how you’re here,” he admits, “but I don’t care nearly as much as I should.”

“You called Fantine,” Enjolras says, like he thinks Grantaire might have forgotten that. “She was very worried. When she couldn’t get hold of you, she called me. For some reason, she seemed to think that I’d be with you, while you were having a crisis.”

Grantaire ignores the very real level of hurt hidden in there. “So you just got on a train?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because you were having a crisis,” Enjolras says, “why do you think?”

“But - ”

Enjolras sighs and sits up, being careful to make sure Grantaire can support himself before turning to glare at him. “Why did you back come to Paris?” he asks.

“Because - ” Grantaire says, then stops. “Because you were having a crisis,” he finishes reluctantly.

Enjolras looks triumphant, then sad. “But you didn’t think I’d do the same for you?”

Grantaire spreads his hands helplessly. He knows what the wrong answer is, but he doesn’t have a better one, so he stays quiet.

Enjolras catches one of his hands and squeezes. “What can - ?” he starts to ask, but is interrupted by Éponine saying, “What the fuck?” flatly from behind them.

They jerk apart, Grantaire feeling his face flush and Enjolras looking up with bright, curious eyes. “Hello,” he says, standing. “Are you Éponine?”

“Hello,” she says back, accepting his handshake. “Are you Enjolras?”

“I am,” Enjolras says, sounding pleased that she knows that. He looks like he’s not sure what else to say and Grantaire holds his breath, hoping to hell it’s not going to be _sorry to hear about your brothers and your shitty parents_.

Grantaire struggles to his feet, letting his arm brush Enjolras’s. “Sorry for giving your neighbours a show.”

She snorts. “They’ve seen worse.” She looks Enjolras up and down. “Why are you here?”

“I’m not here to interfere,” Enjolras says quickly. He definitely means well, but it makes it clear that he knows more than he should and Éponine glares at Grantaire. “I just wanted to talk to Grantaire.”

“Does Grantaire want to talk to you?” she asks, looking at Grantaire, not him. She looks fragile and half-drunk, eyes red and sore-looking, but Grantaire doesn’t doubt for a second that she’ll kick Enjolras all the way back to Paris, if Grantaire asks her to.

He can’t actually ask her to. “I do,” he says. “It’s okay.”

Éponine frowns like she can tell he’s held some important information back from her. Maybe it’s because Enjolras is still holding his hand. That might be it.

It's possible he should have told her about the sex, but he'd been distracted.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Grantaire says, pulling on Enjolras’s hand. “Leave Éponine in peace.”

Enjolras looks between them. “Not if I’m interrupting,” he says, in an unexpected burst of actually understanding tact. 

“Go away,” Éponine says, turning around in the doorway. “I have important drinking to do.”

Grantaire frowns after her and Enjolras frowns at him. “Should she be left?” Enjolras asks.

“She’ll be okay,” Grantaire says. He hopes it’s true. He knows she’ll be all right for the next hour or so, anyway. “Come on.”

Éponine lives within walking distance of campus, if you don’t mind taking quite a stroll. Neither Grantaire nor Enjolras have ever minded walking, so that’s where Grantaire points them.

Since it’s the Easter holidays, there’s hardly anyone around, the closer they get to the university. Enjolras looks around curiously, looking like he’s dying to ask Grantaire questions, but Grantaire stays quiet so so does he.

“This is where I spend most of my time,” Grantaire says, stopping outside the art building.

“Can we go in?” Enjolras asks.

“Maybe,” Grantaire says, but he drags Enjolras over to a nearby bench, instead. 

They’re only really here because it’s Grantaire’s safety zone and he feels like he needs a bit of safety for whatever conversation Enjolras wants to have.

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “You can talk, now.”

Enjolras sighs. He leans his head back and looks suddenly exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he says, then says it again, while looking Grantaire in the eye, “I’m sorry.”

“I have no idea why,” Grantaire admits. “Didn’t _I_ run out on _you_?”

Enjolras turns their hands over and concentrates hard on slotting their fingers together. Grantaire watches the top of his head, itching to smooth his tangled curls, and feels baffled. 

“I thought you understood how I felt, when I kissed you or when we had sex,” Enjolras says, “but Combeferre says that it’s dangerous to assume things like that.”

“It’s dangerous to assume anything with me,” Grantaire says faintly, wondering if this can really be going where he thinks it’s going.

“I missed you so much,” Enjolras says fiercely. He looks up and shakes his head before Grantaire can answer. “I mean that I missed you before; I’ve missed you since you moved away and maybe even longer than that. Don’t say you were only gone a day, okay? Don’t make a quip or put yourself down or say anything if you’re going to imply that I don’t love you.”

Grantaire actually jumps, he’s so surprised. “What?” he asks shakily. “I’m sorry, I’m not putting myself down, I just really need you to repeat that.”

“I love you,” Enjolras says, with a tiny shrug of his shoulders like it’s easy, like it should be obvious. “And when you have things going on in your life, I want to be able to help you, not find myself left behind.”

Grantaire can’t do much more than nod and keep nodding and hope he doesn’t look as unhinged as he feels. He uses Enjolras’s grip on his hands to pull him forward and brushes his lips against Enjolras’s, fitting their mouths together carefully, since he’s still fairly certain this is a dream.

Enjolras is smiling when they break apart. “Do you believe me?” he asks.

“Kind of,” Grantaire decides. “I think I do.” Enjolras’s makes a frustrated face and Grantaire laughs giddily at him. “I’m sorry, did I doubt your word? Apollo.”

It’s a deliberate word choice after years of making himself stop using that nickname, stop implying a familiarity that no longer existed, but he’s not expecting the shaky way Enjolras breathes in when he hears it or the kiss he earns for using it.

“I’ve missed being called that,” Enjolras confesses. “Even though I always thought I hated it.”

“I knew you didn’t hate it,” Grantaire tells him. 

Enjolras shakes his head at him. “Can I take you on a date?” he asks. 

Grantaire blinks, confused by the sudden shift in conversation. “Another one?” he asks, trying to laugh.

“Going to a club wasn’t a date,” Enjolras says, “and even if it were, I’d want to take you on another. I want to date you.”

Grantaire wants to say _Yes, yes, definitely yes_ , but instead he makes himself be cautious. He hates being cautious, but he’s trying to grow as a person. “Why?” he asks. It comes out plaintive, but he can’t do anything to stop it. “I don’t understand what’s suddenly changed.”

“Nothing.” Enjolras turns all the way to face him and looks at him steadily. “Nothing’s changed, at all. I’ve wanted to date you for years; this is the first time I’ve had the opportunity, so I’m taking advantage of it.”

“Years?” Grantaire asks. “Like… years?” He could possibly feel angry now, if he felt anything but gleeful. He’s been pining away like an idiot for so long, and apparently it was completely unnecessary.

Enjolras starts dragging the edge of his thumb along the length of Grantaire’s fingers, one after the other. It makes Grantaire feel shivery. 

“I used to think about kissing you,” he says. “Sometimes, I’d think you felt the same, but then you’d pull away completely. You started getting angrier and angrier at me, day after day, and I thought that meant you’d realised how I felt and were disgusted with me. Then you told us all that _you_ were gay, and I didn’t understand.” 

“Oh god.” Grantaire uses his free hand to tug on handfuls of his own hair. “Stupid, stupid,” he mutters to himself. “I pulled away because I was scared you’d realise how I felt about you. Fuck.”

“Stop that,” Enjolras says softly, coaxing Grantaire’s hand out of his hair. He’s smiling. Why is he smiling? “I’m glad we had this conversation, it’s cleared up a lot of things. Will you go out with me?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. The whole last five years of his life might have been different, if he didn’t constantly let himself believe in worst case scenarios. “Yeah,” he says, then laughs. “Yes, please.”

Enjolras’s small smile gets bigger and bigger. “Good,” he says, and kisses Grantaire again, like they’re sealing a deal.

Grantaire lets himself kiss back and tries really hard not to think about inconvenient things like reality, but that proves to be a lost cause. “I don’t live in Paris, though,” he says. “How are you going to take me on a date, if we’re a thousand kilometres apart?”

“Long distance,” Enjolras says immediately. “I could visit and you could actually come home occasionally. We could make it work.”

Grantaire laughs and loves him even more for his optimism. “Long distance relationships are terrible,” he says. “You’ll leave me for a sparkly club boy before the end of next term.”

Enjolras just looks at him, clearly desperately unimpressed. Grantaire ducks his head and grins. “You do want to though? Right?” Enjolras asks carefully.

When Grantaire looks up at him, he actually looks uncertain. “Of course I do,” he says. “Of _course_.”

***

“Since when do you have a boyfriend?” Éponine folds her arms, glaring.

Grantaire left Enjolras in the garden, in the sunshine, because he had a feeling this was going to be terrible. He’s very glad that he did, now.

“He’s not my - ” Grantaire starts then realises that may not be true. “About three days?”

“You should have told me,” Éponine says. “I thought you were sitting around, being miserable in Paris, but you were happy and I tore you away from it. You should have told me.”

“You and the kids are more important than my love life,” Grantaire says. It’s even true, despite how amazing to feels to _have_ an Enjolras-related love life.

Éponine’s eyes shine. “God, R, do you know how long I’ve spent wanting you to be happy? Are you happy?” 

Normally, Grantaire Isn't very good at answering questions like that, but right now, it’s pretty easy. “I’m happy with him.”

“Good,” Éponine says. “Gav and I have been talking about what would make us happy, and we’ve decided we need to get away from here.”

“To where?” Grantaire asks. He’s not going to be selfish and tell her that she can’t leave him here, alone, he’s _not_.

“Paris sounds good,” she says, with a small, half-uncertain smile. 

“Paris,” Grantaire echoes. He leans forward toward her. “Éponine?”

She looks at him calmly. “It’d be a fresh start, Gav can find a school and I can transfer my degree. But we couldn’t leave you here by yourself; who knows what kind of trouble you’d get in to.”

Grantaire stares at her, dumbfounded. “Just transfer our degrees?” he asks. “Just pack up and leave? Are you sure? You don’t need to do this for me.”

“I’m doing it for me and Gav,” she says, firmly. “We’re going whether you come with us or not but really, there’s an incredibly pretty blond boy in my front garden, who I’m guessing you want to stay close to.”

“I really do,” Grantaire admits. He feels like he’s in a dream. He doesn’t understand how he can be getting all the things he wants: Éponine and Gavroche safe, and Enjolras to love him.

“Then we’re moving to Paris,” Éponine says, “and we’re _all_ going to be happy.” The way she says it makes it sound like she’s not going to give them a chance to be otherwise.

Grantaire darts in and kisses her cheek. He knows she’s doing this at least fifty percent for him, no matter what she says, but he’s too excited and too relieved to do anything but selfishly accept it. “Thank you,” he says.

He slips back out into the hall and smiles when he finds that Enjolras is standing on the front step, like a vampire who hasn’t been invited in. He’s talking to Gavroche who is looking at him very suspiciously.

“Apollo,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras’s head snaps up and he smiles brightly enough to light up his whole face. Jesus, Grantaire thinks; it’s going to be happiness that kills him, in the end.

Grantaire grins at him. “We’re moving to Paris.”

Gavroche yells, “Yes!” and pumps the air. 

Enjolras looks as though he’d like to do the same. “You are?” he asks, finally stepping past Gavroche and toward Grantaire. “Really?”

“Éponine is in charge and she says we are,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras closes his eyes for a long, quiet moment. “That’s a relief,” he says, at last. “Someone told me that long distance relationships are terrible, so I was going to have to call the whole thing off, otherwise.”

“Arsehole,” Grantaire says. He ends up whispering it for no particular reason except that Enjolras is really close, now.

“Are you going to kiss?” Gavroche asks, sounding appalled.

Enjolras laughs softly, a little breath of air against Grantaire’s lips. “You’ll have to get used to it, if we’re all going to be living in the same city,” he tells Gavroche without looking away from Grantaire.

“Ew,” Gavroche says and marches away, probably to tell Éponine the whole plan is off.

“Where are you going to be living?” Enjolras asks.

He still hasn’t kissed Grantaire and Grantaire is a little distracted by that, but he manages to answer the question. Eventually. “Probably with Fantine to start? After that, no clue.”

“You should look for somewhere that’s big enough for four,” Enjolras says. “I can’t keep camping out at Combeferre’s forever.”

“You want to live together?” Grantaire asks, just to be sure. “Really?”

“If you want to,” Enjolras says. His smile says he knows Grantaire wants to. “We can take it slowly, find somewhere with enough space for us to have a bedroom each."

Grantaire breathes out slowly. He likes it when Enjolras preempts his panic attacks. “Yeah,” he says, and kisses Enjolras, before he can change his mind.

***

_Six Months Later_

“Enjolras, stop checking twitter and stir the Thing,” Éponine’s voice floats out of the kitchen.

Across the dining table from Grantaire (well, it’s not a dining table, they’ve botched it together out of five different-sized coffee tables plus the actual table Fantine gave them) Musichetta raises her eyebrows. “The Thing?” she asks.

“Probably a sauce?” he says, shrugging and pouring more wine. Éponine and Enjolras have both decided they need to learn to cook, and it’s been an adventure, to say the least.

“Is this going to be a disaster?” Musichetta asks. She doesn’t sound bothered either way, but that’s possibly because it’s still early, so the others haven’t arrived yet, and she and Grantaire are killing a bottle of wine between them.

“Nope, turns out Gavroche actually understands what a Thing is. If they go too far, he’ll swoop in and save them.”

“Does it worry you that the most functional adult in your household is a nine year old boy?” Musichetta asks.

“Does it worry you that Bossuet’s probably the most functional person in yours?” Grantaire parries back at her.

“Not at all,” she says, raising her wine glass.

Grantaire raises his in turn and clinks them together, since that’s his answer, too.

Gavroche lets them mess around in the kitchen for ten more minutes, before kicking Enjolras out - Enjolras is so much worse at cooking than anyone; it’s hilarious - and by then, Combeferre and Courfeyrac have arrived.

“Don’t disturb Éponine,” Enjolras says, when he comes out of the kitchen and bumps into Courfeyrac trying to go in. Everyone in the room knows it’s a lost cause, since they’re clearly, ridiculously smitten with each other. Grantaire wonders if that’s how he used to look at Enjolras and then he wonders if it’s how he still does.

“Of course not,” Courfeyrac says and slides past him into the kitchen.

Enjolras sighs then brightens when Grantaire makes grabby motions at him. He comes around their horrible conglomeration of borrowed tables and leans against the back of Grantaire’s chair. 

Grantaire rocks backwards and smiles up at him, feeling loose and lazy. “How’s the sauce?” he asks.

“Perfect,” Enjolras says, loud enough that everyone can hear, then whispers, “Lumpy,” to Grantaire.

Grantaire laughs, lifting his wineglass up for Enjolras to take a sip. Enjolras takes it but doesn’t have any, just grins down at Grantaire. “You’re drunk,” he says.

“I’m always drunk,” Grantaire tells him, then frowns. “No, wait, the other thing.” That’s actually the opposite of what he meant; he’s drinking less now than he can ever remember doing before, but it means that when he does drink, it leaves him giddy and ridiculous. Living with Enjolras has made him a lightweight; it’s terrible.

“I know what you meant,” Enjolras promises and leans over to kiss him.

Grantaire hears a soft thump, but doesn’t really process it, until Enjolras straightens up with an offended noise. There’s a sticky pink mark on the top of his head, and a half-exploded red grape on the table by Grantaire’s place.

“Who threw that?” Enjolras asks, looking around the room. Most people look confused; Combeferre, sitting one seat over from Musichetta, looks innocent, but it’s the sort of innocent that Grantaire doesn’t believe.

“I think you have a snake amongst your most trusted advisors,” he tells Enjolras, nodding across at Combeferre.

“Traitor,” Combeferre says mildly, and throws a grape at him, next.

Enjolras slides into the empty seat next to Grantaire’s - it’s officially designated for Fantine, but everyone always leaves a seat free so Grantaire and Enjolras can sit together, just as there are two free around Musichetta.

Grantaire wonders what it’ll be like when everyone has a date to bring to their group dinners; they’ll need a bigger flat to fit them all in.

“Having a good time?” Enjolras asks, sliding an arm around the back of Grantaire’s chair.

“It hasn’t started yet,” Grantaire says. He leans into Enjolras’s half-hug. “But yes.” 

The four of them have been living together for three months and no one’s killed anyone yet, Madame Magnon is bringing the boys for a visit to Paris next week, and Grantaire is expecting Azelma to wind up on their sofa any day now. Things are falling into place in ways he’d never dreamed they could.

“It’s Pride soon,” Enjolras says, still talking quietly, just for Grantaire at the moment.

“It’s not?” Grantaire says. He might be wine-fuzzy, but it’s definitely autumn. “Pride’s in June.”

“That’s soon, when I’d like to organise something to coincide,” Enjolras says. He looks over at Combeferre, who shrugs helplessly at Grantaire, so clearly they’ve already talked about this.

“We went this year, what more is there to do?” Grantaire asks. He’d thought they’d had fun; so many boys had wanted to kiss Enjolras and Enjolras had only wanted to kiss him. So Grantaire, at least, had had fun.

“I was thinking a protest,” Enjolras says then, in response to whatever face Grantaire makes, “a peaceful protest. We don’t have true equality yet, and it’s about time people stood up and - ”

Grantaire kisses him. “January,” he says, “You can start planning in January. You’ve got that workers thing in November and exams in December, you’ll wear yourself out.”

“January,” Enjolras agrees, nodding. Grantaire would tell him that he doesn’t need to protest to be good at being gay, but this is Enjolras so maybe he feels he does. It’s not like Grantaire won’t be right beside him, no matter what scheme he comes up with.

The doorbell rings, and Grantaire pokes Enjolras in the side. “Answer the door, like a good host,” he says.

“You’re the host, I’m doing the cooking,” Enjolras says, but he starts to stand anyway. Musichetta waves him down before he can get far.

“I’ll get it,” she says, standing much more steadily on her heels than Grantaire feels even sitting down. 

“She’s nice,” Grantaire says, snuggling back into Enjolras’s side. He listens to Musichetta greet Fantine and Cosette, then closes his eyes. “Wake me up when there’s edible food,” he says.

Enjolras arm tightens around him. “Okay,” he says, leaning his cheek against the top of Grantaire’s head. Grantaire drifts into a doze to the sounds of their friends having fun and being happy together and, under all that, the constant thump of Enjolras’s heartbeat, right beside him where it’s supposed to be.

/End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥
> 
> Title from 'If My Heart Were A House' by Owl City.
> 
> (Yes, I gave names to the two youngest Thénardier boys, because Victor Hugo didn’t.)
> 
> Go and check out Speciate's [art post on tumblr](http://ceylons.tumblr.com/post/100329839511/my-portion-of-the-les-miserables-big-bang-entry) :)


End file.
